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Mb    MMM 


Pharais 
V 


PHARAIS 


A  Romance  of  the  Isles 


BY 


FIONA   MACLEOD 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD   &   COMPANY 
1907 


COPYRIGHT,   1895,  BY 
STONE    AND    KIMBALL 


This  edition  published  in  May,  IQO7, 
by  Dujffield  &*  Company 


"Mithich  domh  triall  gu  tigh  Pharais." 
(It  is  time  for  me  to  go  up  unto  the  House  of  Paradise.) 
Muireadhach  Albannach. 

"How  many  beautiful  things  have  come  to  us  front 
Pharais." 

"  Bileag-na-Toscuil." 


442281 


To 
E.    W.  £. 

Dear  friend,  —  While  you  gratify  me  by  your 
pleasure  in  this  inscription,  you  modestly  depre 
cate  the  dedication  to  you  of  this  story  of  alien 
life  —  of  that  unfamiliar  island-life  so  alien  in 
all  ways  from  the  life  of  cities,  and,  let  me  add, 
from  that  of  the  great  mass  of  the  nation  to 
which,  in  the  communal  sense,  we  both  belong. 
But  in  the  Domhan-Tbir  of  friendship  there  are 
resting-places  where  all  barriers  of  race,  train 
ing,  and  circumstance  fall  away  in  dust.  At  one 
of  these  places  of  peace  we  met,  a  long  while  ago, 
and  found  that  we  loved  the  same  things,  and  in 
the  same  way.  You  have  been  in  the  charmed 
West  yourself:  have  seen  the  gloom  and  shine  of 
the  mountains  that  throw  their  shadow  on  the 
sea:  have  heard  the  wave  whisper  along  that 
haunted  shore  which  none  loves  save  with  pas 
sion,  and  none,  loving,  can  bear  to  be  long  parted 
from.  You,  unlike  so  many  who  delight  only  in 
the  magic  of  sunshine  and  cloud,  love  this  dear 
land  when  the  mists  drive  across  the  hillsides,  and 
the  brown  torrents  are  in  spate,  and  the  rain  and 
the  black  wind  make  a  gloom  upon  every  loch,  and 
fill  with  the  dusk  of  storm  every  strath,  and  glen, 
and  corrie.  Not  otherwise  can  one  love  it  aright: 
"  Tir  nam  Beann  s'nan  gleann'  s'nan  ghaisgach," 
as  one  of  our  ancient  poets  calls  it —  "  The  land 
of  hills,  and  glens,  and  heroes."  You,  too,  like 


viii  To  E.  W.  R. 

Deirdre  of  old,  have  looked  back  on  "Alba,"  and, 
finding  it  passing  fair  and  dear,  have,  with  the 
Celtic  Helen,  said  in  your  heart  — 

Jnmain  tir  in  tir  ud  thoir, 
Alba  cona  lingantaibh !  .  .  . 

["  Beloved  is  that  eastern  land, 
Alba  of  the  lochs."] 

In  the  mythology  of  the  Gael  are  three  forgotten 
deities,  children  of  Delbaith-Dana.  These  are 
Seithoir,  Teithoir,  and  Keithoir.  One  dwells 
throughout  the  sea,  and  beneath  the  soles  of  the 
feet  of  another  are  the  highest  clouds;  and  these 
two  may  be  held  sacred  for  the  beauty  they  weave 
for  the  joy  of  eye  and  ear.  But  now  that,  as 
surely  none  may  gainsay,  Keithoir  is  blind  and 
weary,  let  us  worship  at  his  fane  rather  than  give 
all  our  homage  to  the  others.  For  Keithoir  is 
the  god  of  the  earth;  dark-eyed,  shadowy  brother 
of  Pan;  and  his  fane  is  among  the  lonely  glens 
and  mountains  and  lonelier  isles  of  "  Alba  cona 
lingantaibh."  //  is  because  you  and  I  are  of  the 
children  of  Keithoir  that  I  wished  to  grace  my 
book  with  your  name. 

The  most  nature-wrought  of  the  English  poets 
hoped  he  was  not  too  late  in  transmuting  into  his 
own  verse  something  of  the  beautiful  mythology 
of  Greece.  But  while  Keats  spun  from  the  in 
exhaustible  loom  of  genius,  and  I  am  bitt  an 
obscure  chronicler  'of  obscure  things,  is  it  too  pre 
sumptuous  of  me  to  hope  that  here,  and  mayhap 
elsewhere,  I,  the  latest  coiner  among  older  and 
worthier  celebrants  and  co-enthusiasts,  likewise 
may  do  something,  howsoever  little,  to  win  a 
further  measure  of  heed  for,  and  more  intimate 
sympathy  with,  that  old  charm  and  stellar  beauty 
of  Celtic  thought  and  imagination,  now,  alas,  like 
so  many  other  lovely  things,  growing  more  and 


To  E.  W.  R.  ix 

more  remote,  discoverable  seldom  in  books,  and 
elusive  amid  the  sayings  and  oral  legends  and  frag 
mentary  songs  of  a  passing  race  ¥ 

A  passing  race :  and  yet,  mayhap  not  so. 
Change  is  inevitable;  and  even  if  ive  could  hear 
the  wind  blowing  along  Magh  Mell  —  the  Plain 
of  Honey  —  we  might  list  to  a  new  note,  bitter 
sweet  :  and,  doubtless,  the  waves  falling  over  the 
green  roof  of  Tir-na-Thonn1  murmur  drowsily 
of  a  shifting  of  the  veils  of  circumstance,  which 
Keithoir  weaves  blindly  in  his  dark  place.  But 
what  was,  surely  is  ;  and  what  is,  surely  may  yet 
be.  The  form  changes  j  the  essential  abides.  As 
the  saying  goes  among  the  islefolk :  The  shadow 
fleets  beneath  the  cloud  driven  by  the  wind,  and 
the  cloud  falls  in  rain  or  is  sucked  of  the  sun,  but 
the  wind  sways  this  way  and  that  for  ever.  It 
may  well  be  that  tlie  Celtic  Dream  is  not  doomed 
to  become  a  memory  merely.  Were  it  so,  there 
would  be  less  joy  in  all  Springs  to  come,  less  hope 
in  all  brown  Autumns  j  and  the  cold  of  a  death  Her 
chill  in  all  Winters  still  dreaming  by  the  Pole. 
For  the  Celtic  joy  in  the  life  of  Nature  —  the  Celtic 
vision  —  is  a  thing  apart :  it  is  a  passion  ;  a  vision 
ary  rapture.  There  is  none  like  it  among  the  peo 
ples  of  our  race. 

Meanwhile,  there  are  a  few  remote  spots,  as  yet 
inviolate.  Here,  Anima  Celtica  still  lives  and 
breathes  and  hath  her  being.  She  dreams  ;  but  if 
she  awake,  it  may  not  necessarily  be  to  a  deepening 
twilight,  or  to  a  forlorn  passage  to  Tir  Tairngire 
—  that  Land  of  Promise  whose  borders  shine  with 
the  loveliness  of  all  forfeited,  or  lost,  or  banished 
dreams  and  realities  of  Beauty.  It  may  be  that 
she  will  arise  to  a  wider  sway,  over  a  disfrontiered 
realm.  Blue  are  the  hills  that  are  far  from  us. 
Dear  saying  of  the  Gael,  whose  soul  as  well  as 
whose  heart  speaks  therein.  Far  hills^  recede,  re- 


x  To  E.  W.  R. 

cede  !    Dim  veils  of  blue,  woven  from  within  and 
without,  haunt  us,  allure  us,  always,  always  / 

But  now,  before  I  send  you  my  last  word  of 
greeting,  let  me  add  (rather  for  other  readers  than 
for  you,  who  already  know  of  them",  a  word  con 
cerning  the  Gaelic  runes  interpolated  in  Pharais.* 

The  "  Urnuigh  Smalaidh  an  Teine  "  (p.  1$)  and 
"  Au  t  Altachadh  Leapa"  (p.  43)  —  respectively  a 
prayer  to  be  said  at  covering  up  the  peat-fore  at 
bed-time  and  a  Rest-blessing  —  are  relics  of  ancient 
Celtic  folklore  which  were  sent  to  the  Rev.  Dr. 
Alexander  Stewart,  of  "  Nether  Lochaber  "  fame, 
by  Mr.  A.  A.  Carmichael,  of  South  Uist,  who  took 
them  down  from  the  recitation  of  a  man  living  at 
locar  of  Uist.  From  the  same  Hebridean  source 
came  the  "  Rann  Buacbailleac,"  or  rune  to  be  said 
over  cattle  when  led  to  pasture  at  morn,  introduced 
at  p.  J/9.  The  English  versions,  by  Dr.  Stewart, 
appeared  first  in  "  The  Inverness  Courier"  over 
twenty  years  ago.  There  are  several  versions 
current  of  the  authentic  incident  of  the  innocent 
old  woman  held  to  be  a  witch,  and  of  her  prayer. 
I  weave  into  my  story  the  episode  as  I  heard  it 
many  years  ago,  though  with  the  rune  rescued 
from  oblivion  by  Dr.  Stewart,  rather  than  with 
the  longer  and  commonly  corrupted  version  still 
to  be  heard  by  the  croft-fire  in  many  localities,  all 
"  the  far  cry  "from  the  Ord  of  Sutherland  to  the 
Rhinns  of  Islay.  The  "  Laoidh  Mhnathan  "  — 
the  Chant  of  Women,  at  p.  100  —  is  not  ancient 
in  the  actual  form,  here  given,  which  is  from  an 
unpublished  volume  of  "  Grain'  Spioradail." 

*  A  slightly  anglicised  lection  of  the  Gaelic  word  Paras  = 
Paradise,  Heaven.  "  Pharais,"  properly,  is  the  genitive  and 
dative  case  of  Paras,  as  in  the  line  from  Muireadhach 
Albannach,  quoted  after  the  title  page,  "  Mithich  domh  triall 
gu  tigh  Pharais  "  —  "  It  is  time  for  me  to  go  up  unto  the  House 
of  Paradise." 


To  E.  W.  R.  xi 

The  sweetest-voiced  of  the  younger  Irish  singtrs 
of  to-day  has  spoken  of  the  Celtic  Twilight.  A 
twilight  it  is;  but,  if  night  follow  gloaming,  so 
also  does  dawn  succeed  night.  Meanwhile,  twi 
light  voices  are  sweet,  if  faint  and  far,  and  linger 
lovingly  in  the  ear. 

There  is  another  Paras  than  that  seen  of  Alas- 
tair  of  Innisrbn  —  the  Tir-Nan-Ogul  of  friend 
ship.  Therein  we  both  have  seen  beautiful  visions 
and  dreamed  dreams.  Take,  then,  out  of  my  heart, 
this  book  of  vision  and  dream. 

FIONA   MACLEOD. 


"  O  bileag-geal, 

O  bileag-na-Toscuilt  bileag  fharais, 
O  tha  e  boidheach  ! 
Thaeboidheach!" 


PHARAIS. 


i. 

IT  was  midway  in  the  seventh  month  of  her 
great  joy  that  the  child  moved,  while  a 
rapture  leaped  to  her  heart,  within  the  womb 
of  Lora,  daughter  of  the  dead  Norman  Mac 
lean,  minister  of  Innisron,  in  the  Outer  Isles. 

On  the  same  eve  the  cruel  sorrow  came  to 
her  that  had  lain  waiting  in  the  dark  place 
beyond  the  sunrise. 

Alastair,  her  so  dearly  beloved,  had  gone, 
three  days  earlier,  by  the  Western  Isles 
steamer,  to  the  port  of  Greenock,  thence  to 
fare  to  Glasgow,  to  learn  from  a  great  pro 
fessor  of  medicine  concerning  that  which  so 
troubled  him,  —  both  by  reason  of  what  the 
islesmen  whispered  among  themselves,  and 
for  what  he  felt  of  his  own  secret  pain  and 
apprehension. 

There  was  a  rocky  spur  on  Innisron,  whence 
the  watcher  could  scan  the  headland  round 
which  the  Clansman  would  come  on  her 
thrice-weekly  voyage :  in  summer,  while  the 
isles  were  still  steeped  in  the  yellow  shine ;  in 
autumn,  when  the  sky  seaward  was  purple,  and 


'£  ! ;  Pharais. 

every  boulder  in  each  islet  was  as  transparent 
amber  amid  a  vapour  of  amethyst  rising  from 
bases  and  hollow  caverns  of  a  cold  day-dawn 
blue. 

Hither  Lora  had  come  in  the  wane  of  the 
afternoon.  The  airs  were  as  gentle  and  of  as 
sweet  balmy  breath  as  though  it  were  Summer- 
sleep  rather  than  only  the  extreme  of  May. 
The  girl  looked,  shading  her  eyes,  seaward; 
and  saw  the  blue  of  the  midmost  sky  laid  as  a 
benediction  upon  the  face  of  the  deep,  but 
paler  by  a  little,  as  the  darkest  turquoise  is  pale 
beside  the  lightest  sapphire.  She  lifted  her 
eyes  from  the  pearl-blue  of  the  horizon  to  the 
heart  of  the  zenith,  and  saw  there  the  soul  of 
Ocean  gloriously  arisen.  Beneath  the  weedy 
slabs  of  rock  whereon  she  stood,  the  green  of 
the  sea-moss  lent  a  yellow  gleam  to  the  slow- 
waving  dead-man's-hair  which  the  tide  laved  to 
and  fro  sleepily,  as  though  the  bewitched  cattle 
of  Sheumais  the  seer  were  drowsing  there  un 
seen,  known  only  of  their  waving  tails,  swinging 
silently  as  the  bulls  dreamed  of  the  hill-pastures 
they  should  see  no  more.  Yellow-green  in  the 
sunlit  spaces  as  the  sea-hair  was,  it  was  dark 
against  the  shifting  green  light  of  the  water 
under  the  rocks,  and  till  so  far  out  as  the 
moving  blue  encroached. 

To  Lora's  right  ran  a  curved  inlet,  ending  in 
a  pool  fringed  with  dappled  fronds  of  sea-fern, 
mare's-tails,  and  intricate  bladder-wrack.  In 
the  clear  hollow  were  visible  the  wave-worn 
stones  at  the  bottom,  many  crowned  with 


Pharais.  3 

spreading  anemones,  with  here  and  there  a 
star-fish  motionlessly  agleam,  or  a  cloud  of 
vanishing  shrimps  above  the  patches  of  sand,  or 
hermit  crabs  toiling  cumbrously  from  perilous 
shelter  to  more  sure  havens.  Looking  down 
she  saw  herself,  as  though  her  wraith  had  sud 
denly  crept  therein  and  was  waiting  to  whisper 
that  which,  once  uttered  and  once  heard,  would 
mean  disunion  no  more. 

Slipping  softly  to  her  knees,  she  crouched 
over  the  pool.  Long  and  dreamily  she  gazed 
into  its  depths.  What  was  this  phantasm,  she 
wondered,  that  lay  there  in  the  green-gloom  as 
though  awaiting  her?  Was  it,  in  truth,  the  real 
Lora,  and  she  but  the  wraith? 

How  strangely  expressionless  was  that  pale 
lace,  looking  upward  with  so  straightforward  a 
mien,  yet  with  so  stealthy  an  understanding, 
with  dark  abysmal  eyes  filled  with  secrecy  and 
dread,  if  not,  indeed,  with  something  of 
menace. 

A  thrill  of  fear  went  to  the  girl's  heart.  A 
mass  of  shadow  had  suddenly  obscured  her 
image  in  the  water.  Her  swift  fancy  suggested 
that  her  wraith  had  abruptly  shrouded  herself, 
fearful  of  revelation.  The  next  moment  she 
realised  that  her  own  wealth  of  dark  Hair  had 
fallen  down  her  neck  and  upon  her  shoulders,  — 
hair  dusky  as  twilight,  but  interwrought  with 
threads  of  bronze  that,  in  the  shine  of  fire  or 
sun,  made  an  evasive  golden  gleam. 

She  shuddered  as  she  perceived  the  eyes  of 
her  other  self  intently  watching  her  through  that 


4  Pharais. 

cloudy  shadow.  A  breath  came  from  the  pool, 
salt  and  shrewd,  and  cold  as  though  arisen 
from  those  sea-sepulchres  whence  the  fish  steal 
their  scales  of  gold  and  silver.  A  thin  voice 
was  in  her  ears  that  was  not  the  lap  of  the  tide 
or  the  cluck  of  water  gurgling  in  and  out  ot 
holes  and  crannies. 

With  a  startled  gesture  she  shrank  back. 

"What  is  it?  What  is  it?  "  she  cried;  but 
the  sound  of  her  own  awed  voice  broke  the 
spell :  and  almost  at  the  same  moment  an  eddy 
of  wind  came  circling  over  the  rock- bastions  of 
the  isle,  and,  passing  as  a  tremulous  hand  over 
the  pool,  ruffled  it  into  a  sudden  silvery  sheen. 

With  a  blithe  laugh,  Lora  rose  to  her  feet. 
The  sunlight  dwelt  about  her  as  though  she 
were  the  sweetest  flower  in  that  lost  garden  of 
Aodh  the  poet,  where  the  streams  are  un 
spanned  rainbows  flowing  to  the  skyey  cauldrons 
below  the  four  quarters,  and  where  every  white 
flower  has  at  dusk  a  voice,  a  whisper,  of  sur 
passing  sweetness. 

"  O  Alastair,  Alastair  !  "  she  cried,  "  will  the 
boat  never  be  coming  that  is  to  bring  you  back 
to  me  !  " 

Not  a  black  spot  anywhere,  of  wherry  or 
steamer,  caught  the  leaping  gaze.  Like  a  bird 
it  moved  across  the  sea,  and  found  no  object 
whereon  to  alight. 

The  Clansman  was  often  late  ;  but  her  smoke 
could  be  seen  across  Dunmore  Head  nigh  upon 
quarter  of  an  hour  before  her  prow  combed  the 
froth  from  the  Sound. 


Pharais.  5 

With  a  sigh,  the  girl  moved  slowly  back  by 
the  way  she  had  come.  Over  and  over,  as  she 
went,  she  sang,  crooningly,  lines  from  a  sweet 
song  of  the  Gael,  O,  Tilly  a  Leannain  / 

As  she  passed  a  place  of  birchen  under 
growth  and  tall  bracken,  she  did  not  see  an  old 
man,  seated,  grey  and  motionless  as  a  heron. 
He  looked  at  her  with  the  dull  eyes  of  age, 
though  there  was  pity  in  them  and  something 
of  a  bewildered  awe. 

"Ay,"  he  muttered  below  his  breath, 
"  though  ye  sing  for  your  dear  one  to  return, 
ye  know  not  what  I  know.  Have  I  not  had  the 
vision  of  him  with  the  mist  growin'  up  an'  up, 
an'  seen  the  green  grass  turn  to  black  mools  at 
his  feet?" 

Lora,  unwitting,  passed ;  and  he  heard  her 
voice  wax  and  wane,  as  falling  water  in  a  glen 
where  the  baffled  wind  among  the  trees  soughs 
now  this  way  and  now  that :  — 

"  Mo  chridhe-sa  !  's  tusa  'bhios  truagh,  'bhios  truagh, 
Mur  fill  is'  'thog  oirre  gu  cluaidh,gucluaidh  !  " 

She  went  past  the  boulder  on  the  path  that  hid 
the  clachan  from  view,  and  within  a  net-throw 
of  which  was  the  byre  of  Mrs.  Maclean's 
cottage,  where,  since  her  father's  death,  she 
had  dwelt. 

A  tall,  gaunt,  elderly  woman,  with  hair  of  the 
ivory  white  of  the  snowberry,  was  about  to  pass 
from  behind  the  byre  with  a  burthen  of  fresh 
bracken  for  Ian  Maclean's  bed  —  for  the  old 
islesman  abode  by  the  way  of  his  fathers,  and 


6  Pharais. 

was  content  to  sleep  on  a  deerskin  spread  upon 
fresh-gathered  fern,  —  when  she  caught  sight  of 
Lora.  She  stopped,  and  with  an  eager  glance 
looked  at  the  girl :  then  beyond,  and  finally  sea 
ward,  with  her  long,  thin,  brown  arm  at  an 
angle,  and  her  hand  curved  over  her  eyes 
against  the  glare  of  the  water. 

Silence  was  about  her  as  a  garment.  Every 
motion  of  her,  even,  suggested  a  deep  calm. 
Mrs.  Maclean  spoke  seldom,  and  when  she  said 
aught  it  was  in  a  low  voice,  sweet  and  serene, 
but  as  though  it  came  from  a  distance  and  in 
the  twilight.  She  was  of  the  shadow,  as  the 
islesmen  say ;  and  strangers  thought  her  to  be 
austere  in  look  and  manner,  though  that  was 
only  because  she  gazed  long  before  she  replied 
to  one  foreign  to  her  and  her  life :  having  the 
Gaelic,  too,  so  much  more  natively  than  the 
English,  that  oftentimes  she  had  to  translate  the 
one  speech  into  the  other  nearer  to  her  :  that, 
and  also  because  the  quiet  of  the  sea  was  upon 
her,  as  often  with  hill-folk  there  is  a  hushed 
voice  and  mien. 

Lora  knew  what  was  in  her  mind  when  she 
saw  her  gaze  go  seaward  and  then  sweep  hither 
and  thither  like  a  hawk  ere  it  settles. 

"  The  boat  is  not  yet  in  sight,  Mary ;  she  is 
late,"  she  said  simply  :  adding  immediately,  "  I 
have  come  back  to  go  up  Cnoc-an-Iolair  ;  from 
there  I'll  see  the  smoke  of  the  Clansman 
sooner.  She  is  often  as  late  as  this." 

Mrs.  Maclean  looked  compassionately  at  the 
girl. 


Pharais.  7 

"  Mayhap  the  Clansman  will  not  be  coming 
this  way  at  all  to-night,  Lora.  She  may  be 
going  by  Kyle-na-Sith." 

A  flush  came  into  Lora's  face.  Her  eyes 
darkened,  as  a  tarn  under  rain. 

"  And  for  why  should  she  not  be  sailing  this 
way  to-night,  when  Alastair  is  coming  home, 
and  is  to  be  here  before  sundown  ?  " 

"  He  may  have  been  unable  to  leave.  If  he 
does  not  come  to-day,  he  will  doubtless  be  here 
to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  !  O  Mary,  Mary,  have  you 
ever  loved,  that  you  can  speak  like  that  ?  Think 
what  Alastair  went  away  for  !  Surely  you  do  not 
know  how  the  pain  is  at  my  heart?  " 

"  Truly,  miiirnean.  But  it  is  not  well  to  be 
sure  of  that  which  may  easily  happen  otherwise." 

"  To-morrow,  indeed  !  Why,  Mary,  if  the 
Clansman  does  not  come  by  this  evening,  and 
has  gone  as  you  say  by  Kyle-na-Sith,  she  will 
not  be  here  again  till  the  day  after  to-morrow  !  " 

"  Alastair  could  come  by  the  other  way,  by 
the  Inverary  boat,  and  thence  by  the  herring- 
steamer  from  Dunmore,  after  he  had  reached  it 
from  Uan  Point  or  by  way  of  Craig- Sionnach." 

"  That  may  be,  of  course ;  but  I  think  not. 
I  cannot  believe  the  boat  will  not  be  here 
to-night." 

Both  stood  motionless,  with  their  hands  shad 
ing  their  eyes,  and  looking  across  the  wide 
Sound,-  where  the  tide  bubbled  and  foamed 
against  the  slight  easterly  wind-drift.  The  late 
sunlight  fell  full  upon  them,  working  its  miracle 


8  Pharais. 

of  gold  here  and  there,  and  making"  the  skin 
like  a  flower.  The  outline  of  each  figure  stood 
out  darkly  clear  as  against  a  screen  of  amber. 

For  a  time  neither  spoke.  At  last,  with  a  faint 
sigh,  Mrs.  Maclean  turned. 

"Did  you  see  Ian  on  your  way,  Lora-mo- 
ghraidh?"  . 

"  No." 

"Do  not  have  speech  with  the  old  man 
to-night,  dear  one.  He  is  not  himself." 

"  Has  he  had  the  sight  again?  " 

"Ay,  Lora." 

Again  a  silence  fell.  The  girl  stood  moodily, 
with  her  eyes  on  the  ground  :  the  elder  watched 
her  with  a  steadfast,  questioning  look. 

"  Mary !  " 

Mrs.  Maclean  made  no  reply,  but  her  eyes 
brought  Lora's  there  with  the  answer  that  was 
in  them. 

"  Ian  has  never  had  the  sight  again  upon 
.  .  .  upon  Alastair,  has  he?" 

"  How  can  I  say,  Lora-gaolaiche  ?  " 

"  But  do  you  know  if  he  has  ?  If  you  do  not 
tell  me,  I  will  ask  him." 

"  I  asked  him  that  only  yester-morning.  He 
shook  his  head." 

"Do  you  believe  he  can  foresee  all  that  is  to 
happen  ?  " 

"  No.  Those  who  have  the  vision  do  not 
read  all  that  is  in  the  future.  Only  God  knows. 
They  can  see  the  thing  of  peril,  ay,  and  the  evil 
of  accident,  and  even  Death,  —  and  what  is 
more,  the  nearness  and  sometimes  the  way  of  it. 


Pharais.  9 

But  no  man  sees  more  than  this,  —  unless, 
indeed,  he  has  been  to  Tir-na-h'Oigh." 

Mrs.  Maclean  spoke  the  last  words  almost  in 
a  whisper,  and  as  though  she  said  them  in  a 
dream. 

"Unless  he  has  been  to  Tir-na-h'Oigh, 
Mary?" 

"  So  it  is  said.  Our  people  believe  that  the 
Land  of  Eternal  Youth  lies  far  yonder  across  the 
sea ;  but  Aodh,  the  poet,  is  right  when  he  tells  us 
that  that  land  is  lapped  by  no  green  waves  such 
as  we  know  here,  and  that  those  who  go  thither 
do  so  in  sleep,  or  in  vision,  or  when  God  has 
filled  with  dusk  the  house  of  the  brain." 

"  And  when  a  man  has  been  to  Tir-na-h'Oigh 
in  sleep,  or  in  dream,  or  in  mind-dark,  does  he 
see  there  what  shall  soon  happen  here  ?  " 

"  It  is  said." 

"  Has  Ian  been  beyond  the  West?  " 

"No." 

"  Then  what  he  sees  when  he  has  the  sight 
upon  him  is  not  beannaichte :  is  not  a  thing  out 
of  heaven?" 

"  I  cannot  say.     I  think  not.'1 

"  Mary,  is  it  the  truth  you  are  now  telling 
me?" 

A  troubled  expression  came  into  the  woman's 
face,  but  she  did  not  answer. 

"  And  is  it  the  truth,  Mary,  that  Ian  has  not 
had  the  sight  upon  Alastair  since  he  went  away 
—  that  he  did  not  have  it  last  night  or  this 
morning?  " 

Lora  leaned  forward  in  her  anxiety.     She  saw 


io  Pharais. 

that  in  her  companion's  eyes  which  gave  her 
the  fear.  But  the  next  moment  Mrs.  Maclean 
smiled. 

"  I  too  have  the  sight,  Lora-ghaolach  ;  and 
shall  I  be  telling  you  that  which  it  will  be  giving 
you  joy  to  hear?  " 

"  Ay,  surely,  Mary  !  " 

"  Then  I  think  you  will  soon  be  in  the  arms 
of  him  you  love,  "  — and,  with  a  low  laugh,  she 
pointed  across  the  sea  to  where  a  film  of  blue- 
grey  smoke  rose  over  the  ridge  of  Dunmore 
headland. 

"  Ah,  the  Clansman  !  "  cried  Lora,  with  a 
gasp  of  joy :  and  the  next  moment  she  was  mov 
ing  down  the  path  again  towards  the  little 
promontory. 

The  wind  had  risen  slightly.  The  splash, 
splash,  of  the  sunny  green  waves  against  each 
other,  the  lapping  of  the  blue  water  upon  the 
ledges  to  the  east,  the  stealthy  whisper  where 
the  emerald-green  tide-flow  slipped  under  the 
hollowed  sandstone,  the  spurtle  of  the  sea-wrack, 
the  flashing  fall  and  foam-send  of  the  gannets, 
the  cries  of  the  gulls,  the  slap  of  wind  as  it  came 
over  the  forehead  of  the  isle  and  struck  the  sea  a 
score  of  fathoms  outward,  —  all  gave  her  a  sense 
of  happiness.  The  world  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  grown  young.  The  exultant  Celtic  joy 
stood  over  against  the  brooding  Celtic  shadow, 
and  believed  the  lances  of  the  sunlight  could  keep 
at  bay  all  the  battalions  of  gloom. 

The  breeze  was  variable,  for  the  weft  of  blue 
smoke  which  suddenly  curled  round  the  bend 


Pharais.  1 1 

of  Dunmore  had  its  tresses  blown  seaward, 
though  where  Lora  stood  the  wind  came  from 
the  west,  and  even  caused  a  white  foam  along 
the  hither  marge  of  the  promontory. 

With  eager  eyes  she  watched  the  vessel 
round  the  point.  After  all,  it  was  just  possible 
she  might  not  be  the  Clansman. 

But  the  last  sunglow  shone  full  against  Dun- 
more  and  upon  the  bows  of  the  steamer  as  she 
swung  to  the  helm ;  and  the  moment  the  red 
funnel  changed  from  a  dusky  russet  into  a  flame 
of  red,  Lora's  new  anxiety  was  assuaged.  She 
knew  every  line  of  the  boat,  and  already  she 
felt  Alastair's  kisses  on  her  lips.  The  usual 
long  summer-gloaming  darkened  swiftly,  —  for 
faint  films  of  coming  change  were  being  woven 
across  the  span  of  the  sky  from  mainland  ocean- 
ward.  Even  as  the  watcher  on  Innisron  stood, 
leaning  forward  in  her  eager  outlook,  she  saw 
the  extreme  of  the  light  lift  upward  as  though 
it  were  the  indrawn  shaft  of  a  fan.  The  con 
tours  of  the  steamer  grew  confused  :  a  velvety 
duskiness  overspread  Dunmore  foreland. 

The  sky  overhead  had  become  a  vast  lift  of 
perishing  yellow,  —  a  spent  wave  of  daffodil  by 
the  north  and  by  the  south ;  westward,  of 
lemon,  deepening  into  a  luminous  orange  glow 
shot  with  gold  and  crimson,  and  rising  as  an 
exhalation  from  hollow  cloud-sepulchres  of 
amethyst,  straits  of  scarlet,  and  immeasurable 
spaces  of  dove-grey  filled  with  shallows  of  the 
most  pale  sea-green. 

Lora   stood   as   though  wrought   in  marble. 


12  Pharais. 

She  had  seen  that  which  made  the  blood  leap 
from  her  heart,  and  surge  in  her  ears,  and 
clamour  against  her  brain. 

No  pennon  flew  at  the  peak  of  the  steamer's 
foremast.  This  meant  there  was  neither  pas 
senger  nor  freight  to  be  landed  at  Innisron,  so 
that  there  was  no  need  for  the  ferry. 

She  could  scarcely  believe  it  possible  that 
the  Clansman  could  come,  after  all,  and  yet 
not  bring  Alastair  back  to  her.  It  seemed 
absurd  :  some  ill-timed  by-play ;  nay,  a  wanton 
cruelty.  There  must  be  some  mistake,  she 
thought,  as  she  peered  hungrily  into  the  sea- 
dusk. 

Surely  the  steamer  was  heading  too  much  to 
the  northward  !  With  a  cry,  Lora  instinctively 
stretched  her  arms  towards  the  distant  vessel ; 
but  no  sound  came  from  her  lips,  for  at  that 
moment  a  spurt  of  yellow  flame  rent  the  grey 
gloom,  as  a  lantern  was  swung  aloft  to  the 
mast-head. 

In  a  few  seconds  she  would  know  all ;  for 
whenever  the  Clansman  was  too  late  for  her 
flag-signal  to  be  easily  seen,  she  showed  a 
green  light  a  foot  or  so  beneath  the  yellow. 

Lora  heard  the  heavy  pulse  of  the  engines, 
the  churn  of  the  beaten  waves,  even  the  delir 
ious  surge  and  suction  as  the  spent  water  was 
driven  along  the  hull  and  poured  over  and 
against  the  helm  ere  it  was  swept  into  the  wake 
that  glimmered  white  as  a  snow-wreath.  So 
wrought  was  she  that,  at  the  same  time,  she 
was  keenly  conscious  of  the  rapid  tweet-tweet- 


Pharais.  13 

tweet-tweet- tweet  —  o-o-h  sweet !  —  sweet !  of  a 
yellow-hammer  among  the  whin  close  by,  and 
of  the  strange,  mournful  cry  of  an  oyster-opener 
as  it  flew  with  devious  swoops  towards  some 
twilight  eyrie. 

The  throb  of  the  engines  —  the  churn  of  the 
beaten  waves  —  the  sough  of  the  swirling  yeast 
—  even  the  churning,  swirling,  under-tumult, 
and  through  it  and  over  it  the  heavy  pulse,  the 
deep  panting  rhythmic  throb :  this  she  heard, 
as  it  were  the  wrought  surge  of  her  own  blood. 

Would  the  green  light  never  swing  up  to  that 
yellow  beacon? 

A  minute  passed  :  two  minutes  :  three  !  It 
was  clear  that  the  steamer  had  no  need  to  call 
at  Innisr6n.  She  was  coming  up  the  mid  of 
the  Sound,  and,  unless  the  ferry-light  signalled 
to  her  to  draw  near,  she  would  keep  her  course 
northwestward. 

Suddenly  Lora  realised  this.  At  the  same 
time  there  flashed  into  her  mind  the  idea  that 
perhaps  Alastair  was  on  board  after  all,  but  that 
he  was  ill,  and  had  forgotten  to  tell  the  captain 
of  his  wish  to  land  by  the  island  ferry. 

She  turned,  and,  forgetful  or  heedless  of  her 
condition,  moved  swiftly  from  ledge  to  ledge, 
and  thence  by  the  path  to  where,  in  the  cove 
beyond  the  clachan,  the  ferry-boat  lay  on  the 
tide-swell,  moored  by  a  rope  fastened  to  an 
iron  clank  fixt  in  a  boulder. 

"  Ian  !  Ian  !  "  she  cried,  as  she  neared  the 
cove ;  but  at  first  she  saw  no  one,  save  Mrs. 
Maclean,  black  against  the  fire -glow  from  her 
cottage.  "Ian!  Ian!" 


14  Pharais. 

A  dark  figure  rose  from  beside  the  ferry- 
shed. 

"  Is  that  you,  Ian  ?  Am  bheil  am  bhata 
deas  ?  Is  the  boat  ready  ?  Bi  ealamh  /  bi 
ealamh  /  mach  am  bhata  :  quick  !  quick  !  out 
with  the  boat !  " 

In  her  eager  haste  she  spoke  both  in  the 
Gaelic  and  the  English :  nor  did  she  notice 
that  the  old  man  did  not  answer  her,  or  make 
any  sign  of  doing  as  she  bade  him. 

"  Oh,  Ian,  bi  ealamh  !  bi  ealamh  /  Faigh  am 
bhata  deas  !  rach  a  stigh  dd>n  bhata  !  " 

Word  for  word,  as  is  the  wont  of  the  people, 
he  answered  her :  — 

"Why  is  it  that  I  should  be  quick?  Why 
should  I  be  getting  the  boat  ready  ?  For  what 
should  I  be  going  into  the  boat?  " 

"The  Clansman!  Do  you  not  see  her? 
Bi  ealamh  /  bi  ealamh  I  or  she  will  go  past 
us  like  a  dream." 

"She  has  flown  no  flag,  she  has  no  green 
light  at  the  mast.  No  one  will  be  coming 
ashore,  and  no  freight ;  and  there  is  no  freight 
to  go  from  here,  and  no  one  who  wants  the  ferry 
unless  it  be  yourself,  Lora  nighean  Tormaid 7" 

"  Alastair  is  there :  he  was  to  come  by  the 
steamer  to-day !  Be  quick,  Ian !  Do  you 
hear  me  ?  " 

"  I  hear,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he  slowly 
moved  towards  the  boulder  to  his  left,  unloosed 
the  rope  from  the  iron  clank,  and  drew  the 
boat  into  the  deep  water  alongside  the  landing- 
ledge. 


Pharais.  15 

"  There  is  no  good  in  going  out,  Lora  bhan  ! 
The  wind  is  rising :  ay,  I  tell  you,  the  wind 
goes  high :  we  may  soon  hear  the  howling  of 
the  sea-dogs." 

But  Lora,  taking  no  notice,  had  sprung  into 
the  boat,  and  was  already  adjusting  the  long 
oars  to  the  old-fashioned  wooden  thole-pins. 
Ian  followed,  grumblingly  repeating,  "  Tha 
gaoth  ruhbr  am  /  Tha  col  fas  stairrn1  air  !  " 

Once,  however,  that  the  wash  of  the  sea 
caught  the  wherry,  and  the  shrewd  air  sent  the 
salt  against  their  faces,  the  old  man  appeared 
to  realise  that  the  girl  was  in  earnest.  Stand 
ing,  he  laid  hold  of  the  sloped  mast,  to  steady 
himself  against  the  swaying  as  the  tide  sucked 
at  the  keel  and  the  short  waves  slapped  against 
the  bows,  and  then  gave  a  quick  calculating 
glance  seaward  and  at  the  advancing  steamer. 

Rapidly  he  gave  his  directions  to  Lora  to 
take  the  helm  and  to  keep  the  boat  to  wind 
ward  :  — 

"  Gabh  an  stiuir,  Lora:  cum  ris  a? 
ghaoith  i/" 

The  next  moment  the  long  oars  were  moving 
slowly,  but  powerfully,  through  the  water,  and 
the  ferry-boat  drove  into  the  open,  and  there 
lay  over  a  little  with  the  double  swing  of  wind 
and  tide. 

The  gloaming  was  now  heavy  upon  the  sea ; 
for  a  mist  had  come  up  with  the  dipping  of 
the  sun,  and  thickened  the  dusk. 

Suddenly  Ian  called  to  Lora  to  hold  the  oars. 
As  soon  as  she  had  caught  them,  and  was 


t6  Pharais. 

steadying  the  boat  in  the  cross  surge  of  the 
water,  he  lifted  a  lantern  from  under  the 
narrow  fore-deck,  lighted  the  wick  below  the 
seat  (after  the  wind  had  twice  blown  the  flame 
into  the  dark),  and  then,  gripping  the  mast, 
waved  the  signal  to  and  fro  overhead. 

It  was  well  he  thought  of  this,  for  the  steamer 
was  going  at  full  speed,  and  would  not  have 
slackened. 

In  a  few  minutes  thereafter  the  heavy  ster 
torous  throb  and  splash  was  close  by  them,  while 
the  screw  revolved  now  at  quarter-speed. 

A  hoarse  voice  came  from  the  Clansman  : 

"  Ferry  ahoy  !  " 

"  Ay,  ay,  ta  ferry  she  will  pe,"  called  back 
Ian  in  the  quaint  English  of  which  he  was  so 
proud  :  though  he  thought  the  language  a  poor, 
thin  speech,  and  fit  only  for  folk  who  never  left 
the  mainland. 

"What  are  ye  oot  for,  Ian?  Ha'  ye  ony 
body  comin'  aboard?" 

"  We  Ve  come  out  for  Mr.  Alastair  Macleod," 
Lora  broke  in  eagerly :  "  we  Ve  come  to  take 
him  off." 

"  Hoots,  my  girl,  what  for  d'  ye  fash  yersel  an' 
us  too  for  the  like  o'  sic  havers.  There  's  no 
one  aboard  who  wants  to  land  at  Innisr6n :  an' 
as  for  Alastair  Macleod,  he  was  na'  on  the  Clans 
man  when  we  left  Greenock,  so  he  could  na'  well 
be  on  her  the  now  !  As  for  you,  Ian  Maclean, 
are  ye  doited,  when,  wi'  neither  flag  nor  green 
light  aloft,  ye  stop  the  steamer  like  this,  a'  for  a 
lassie's  haverin'  !  Ye  '11  hear  o'  this  yet,  my 


Pharais.  17 

man,  I  'se  telling  ye  !  Auld  fule  that  ye  are,  awa1 
wi'  ye  !  keep  aff  the  wash  o'  the  steamer :  .  .  . 
an'  by  the  Lord,  I'll  ..." 

But  already  the  Clansman  was  forging  ahead, 
and  the  second-officer's  menace  was  swallowed 
up  in  the  tumult  of  churned  seas. 

A  minute  later  the  steamer  was  a  dark  mass 
to  the  nor'-west,  with  a  sheet  of  white  writhing 
after  her,  and  a  swirl  of  flaming  cinders  from  her 
funnel  riding  down  the  night  like  a  shoal  of 
witch-lights. 

The  wherry  rocked  heavily,  caught  as  she  was 
in  the  surge  from  the  screw,  and  lying  adrift  in 
the  sliding  hollows  and  rough  criss-cross  of  the 
waves. 

Lora  sat  motionless  and  speechless.  The  old 
man  stared  down  into  the  darkness  of  the  boat : 
but  though  his  lips  moved  continuously,  no  sound 
came  from  them. 

For  a  time  it  was  as  though  a  derelict  were 
the  sport  of  the  sea,  which  had  a  dull  moan  in 
it,  that  partly  was  from  the  stifled  voice  of  the 
tide  as  it  forced  its  way  from  the  cauldrons  of 
the  deep,  and  partly  from  the  fugitive  clamour 
of  breaking  waves,  and  mostly  from  the  now 
muffled,  now  loud  and  raucous  sough  of  the 
wind  as  it  swung  low  by  the  surge,  or  trailed  off 
above  the  highest  reach  of  the  flying  scud. 

At  last,  in  a  whisper,  the  girl  spoke. 

"  Ian,  has  aught  of  evil  come  to  Alastair?  " 

"  God  forbid  !  " 

"  Do  you  know  anything  to  his  undoing?  " 

"  No,  Lora  bhan." 


1 8  Pharais. 

"You  have  not  had  the  sight  upon  him 
lately?" 

The  islesman  hesitated  a  moment.  Raising 
his  eyes  at  last,  he  glanced  first  at  his  compan 
ion  and  then  out  into  the  dusk  across  the  waves, 
as  though  he  expected  to  see  some  one  or  some 
thing  there  in  answer  to  his  quest. 

"  I  dreamt  a  dream,  Lora,  wife  of  Alastair. 
I  saw  you  and  him  and  another  go  away  into  a 
strange  place.  You  and  the  other  were  as 
shadows  ;  but  Alastair  was  a  man,  as  now,  though 
he  walked  through  mist,  and  I  saw  nothing  of 
him  but  from  the  waist  upward." 

Silence  followed  this,  save  for  the  wash  of  the 
sea,  the  moan  of  wind  athwart  wave,  and  the  soft 
rush  of  the  breeze  overhead. 

Ian  rose,  and  made  as  though  he  were  going 
to  put  out  the  oars ;  but  as  he  saw  how  far  the 
boat  had  drifted  from  the  shore,  and  what  a 
jumble  of  water  lay  between  them  and  the  isle, 
he  busied  himself  with  hoisting  the  patched 
brown  sail. 

As  if  no  interval  had  occurred,  Lora  abruptly 
called  him  by  name. 

"  Ian,"  she  added,  "what  does  the  mist  mean  ? 
...  the  mist  that  you  saw  about  the  feet  and 
up  to  the  waist  of  Alastair?  " 

There  was  no  reply.  Ian  let  go  the  sail, 
secured  it,  and  then  seated  himself  a  few  feet 
away  from  Lora. 

She  repeated  the  question  :  but  the  old  man 
was  obstinately  silent,  nor  did  he  speak  word  of 
any  kind  till  the  wherry  suddenly  slackened,  as 


Pharais.  19 

she  slipped  under  the  lee  of  the  little  promontory 
of  the  landing-place. 

"The  tide  will  be  on  turning  now,"  he 
exclaimed  in  his  awkward  English,  chosen  at 
the  moment  because  he  did  not  dare  to  speak 
in  the  Gaelic,  fearful  as  he  was  of  having  any 
further  word  with  his  companion ;  "  and  see, 
after  all,  the  wind  she  will  soon  pe  gone." 

Lora,  who  had  mechanically  steered  the  boat 
to  its  haven,  still  sat  in  the  stern,  though  Ian  had 
stepped  on  to  the  ledge  and  was  holding  the 
gunwale  close  to  it  so  that  she  might  step  ashore 
with  ease.  She  looked  at  him  as  though  she 
did  not  understand.  The  old  man  shifted  un 
easily.  Then  his  conscience  smote  him  for  hav 
ing  used  the  cold,  unfriendly  English  instead  of 
the  Gaelic  so  dear  to  them  both :  for  was  not 
the  girl  in  the  shadow  of  trouble,  and  did  he  not 
foresee  for  her  more  trouble  to  come?  So, 
in  a  gentle,  apologetic  voice,  he  repeated  in 
Gaelic  what  he  had  said  about  the  tide  and  the 
wind  : 

"  Thill  an  sruth  :  DW  fhalbh  a?  ghaoth. 

"  There  will  be  peace  to-night,"  he  added. 
"  It  was  but  a  sunset  breeze,  after  all.  There 
will  be  no  storm.  I  think  now  there  will  be  a 
calm.  It  will  be  bad  for  the  herring- boats.  It 
is  a  long  pull  and  a  hard  pull  when  the  water 
sleeps  against  the  keel.  A  dark  night,  too,  most 
likely." 

Lora  rose,  and  slowly  stepped  on  shore.  She 
took  no  notice  of  lan's  sudden  garrulity.  She  did 
not  seem  to  see  him  even. 


2O  Pharais. 

He  looked  at  her  with  momentary  resentment  : 
but  almost  simultaneously  a  pitiful  light  came 
into  his  eyes. 

"  He  will  be  here  to-morrow,"  he  murmured, 
"  and  if  not,  then  next  day  for  sure." 

Lora  moved  up  the  ledge  in  silence. 

In  the  middle  of  the  cove  she  stopped,  waved 
her  hand,  and,  in  a  dull  voice  bidding  good  night, 
wished  sound  sleep  to  him :  — 

"  Beannachd  leibh  !  Cadal  math  dhiubh  !  " 

Ian  answered  simply,  "Beannachd  leibh!" 
and  turned  to  fasten  the  rope  to  the  iron  clamp. 

The  dew  was  heavy,  even  on  the  rough  salt 
spear-grass  which  fringed  the  sand  above  the 
cove.  On  the  short  sheep-grass,  on  the  rocky 
soil  beyond,  it  was  dense,  and  shone  white  as  a 
shroud  in  a  dark  room.  A  bat  swung  this  way 
and  that,  whirling  silently.  The  fall  of  the  wind 
still  sighed  in  the  bent  rowan  trees  to  the  west  of 
the  clachan,  where  the  pathway  diverged  from 
the  shore.  Against  the  bluff  of  Cnoc-an-Iolair 
it  swelled  intermittently  :  its  voice  in  the  hollows 
and  crevices  of  the  crag  broken  up  in  moans 
and  short  gasps,  fainter  and  fainter. 

Lora  noted  all  this  wearily  as  she  advanced. 
She  was  conscious,  also,  of  the  nibbling  of  the 
sheep,  quenching  their  thirst  with  the  wet  grass  : 
of  the  faint  swish  of  her  feet  going  through  the 
dew :  of  the  dark  track,  like  a  crack  in  black 
ice,  made  wherever  she  walked  in  the  glisten. 
But  though  she  saw  and  unwittingly  noted,  her 
thoughts  were  all  with  Alastair  and  with  what 
had  kept  him. 


Pharais.  2 1 

In  her  remote  life  there  was  scarce  room  for 
merely  ordinary  vicissitudes.  It  was  not  a 
thing  to  ponder  as  ominous  that  one  should  go 
out  to  sea  after  herring  or  mackerel  and  not 
return  that  night  or  the  morrow,  or  even  by  the 
next  gloaming,  or  second  dawn ;  or  that  a  man 
should  go  up  among  the  hills  and  not  come 
back  for  long  after  his  expected  hour.  But 
that  one  could  miss  the  great  steamer  was  a 
thing  scarce  to  believe  in.  To  Lora,  who  had 
been  so  little  on  the  mainland,  and  whose  only 
first-hand  knowledge  of  the  feverish  life  of  towns 
was  derived  from  her  one  winter  of  school-life  at 
Rothesay  and  brief  visits  to  Greenock  and 
Oban,  it  was  difficult  to  realise  how  any  one 
could  fail  to  leave  by  the  steamer,  unless  ill  or 
prevented  by  some  serious  mischance.  The 
periodical  coming  of  the  Clansman  symbolised 
for  her,  to  a  certain  extent,  the  inevitable  march 
of  time  and  fate.  To  go  or  come  by  that 
steam-driven,  wind-heedless  vessel  was  to  be 
above  the  uncertainties  and  vicissitudes  to 
which  ordinary  wayfaring  mortals  are  subject. 
The  girl  thought  she  knew  so  much  that  to  her 
all  of  what  town-life  meant  must  be  bare,  be 
cause  of  her  reading  :  knowing  not  that,  with  a 
woman  whose  heart  aches,  a  tear  will  drown 
every  word  writ  in  any  book,  a  sigh  scatter 
the  leaves  into  nothingness. 

Deep  was  the  puzzle  to  her  as  she  slowly 
ascended  the  path  which  led  to  Mary  Mac 
lean's  cottage.  She  stopped  once  or  twice, 
half  unconsciously,  to  smell  the  fragrance  of 


22  Pharais. 

the  bog-myrtle  where  the  gale  grew  in  tufts 
out  of  the  damper  patches,  or  of  the  thyme  as 
it  was  crushed  under  her  feet  and  made  over- 
sweet,  over-poignant  by  the  dew. 

The  peat- reek  reached  her  nostrils  from  the 
cottage,  blent  with  the  breaths  of  the  cows  that 
still  loitered  afoot,  munching  the  cool  wilding 
fodder.  Her  gaze,  too,  fell  upon  the  fire-lit 
interior,  with  a  table  overspread  by  a  white 
cloth,  flushed  by  the  glow  that  wavered  from 
betwixt  the  red-hot  bars ;  and,  later,  upon  the 
figure  of  Mrs.  Maclean,  who  had  come  out  to 
meet  her,  or,  more  likely,  had  been  there  ever 
since  the  ferry-boat  had  gone  off  upon  its  use 
less  errand. 

"Are  you  wet,  Lora?  Are  you  cold?"  she 
asked,  as  the  girl  drew  near.  There  was  no 
need  to  say  aught  of  the  bitter  disappointment, 
any  more  than  to  speak  of  the  glooming  of  the 
dusk :  both  were  obvious  facts  beyond  the  yea 
or  nay  of  speech. 

"  I  am  very  tired,  Mary." 

"  Come  in,  dear,  and  have  your  tea.  It  will 
do  you  good.  Lora-mo-ghraidh,  you  should 
not  have  gone  out  in  the  ferry-boat.  It  was  no 
use,  and  the  sea  was  rough,  and  you  might  have 
come  to  harm ;  and  what  would  Alastair  Mac- 
leod  be  saying,  to-morrow,  if  he  found  his 
heart's-delight  ill,  and  that  I  had  stood  by  and 
seen  her  do  so  foolish  a  thing?" 

"Oh,  Mary,  do  you  really  think  he  will  be 
here  to-morrow?" 

"  Surely." 


Pharais.  23 

"  But  I  fear  he  will  wait  now  till  the  next 
sailing  of  the  Clansman" 

"  We  cannot  say.  Come  in,  my  fawn,  out  of 
the  chill." 

"  It  is  going  to  be  a  lovely  night.  The  wind 
falls  fast;  even  now  it  is  almost  still.  The 
purple  peace  will  be  upon  everything  to-night. 
I  am  restless :  I  do  not  wish  to  go  in-doors." 

"  No,  no,  Lora  dear  to  me  !  Come  in  and 
have  your  tea,  and  then  rest.  You  can  rise  at 
daybreak,  if  you  will,  and  go  round  the  island, 
lest  he  should  be  coming  in  any  of  the  herring- 
smacks." 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  Ian." 

"  Ian  has  gone  across  to  Ivor  Maquay's ;  he 
will  not  be  here  to-night." 

Lora  looked  suspiciously  at  the  speaker. 
Had  she  not  left  Ian  a  few  minutes  ago,  and 
was  he  not  even  now  following  her?  She 
stared  about  her,  but  saw  no  one.  In  the 
gloaming  she  could  just  descry  the  black  mass 
of  the  wherry.  Ian  was  nowhere  visible.  She 
did  not  think  of  scrutinising  the  shadow  of  the 
beached  and  long  disused  coble  which  lay  a  few 
yards  away.  Had  she  done  so,  she  might  have 
perceived  the  old  islesman  standing  rigid.  He 
had  overheard  his  kinswoman,  and  understood. 
As  soon  as  the  two  women  had  entered  the 
cottage,  he  moved  swiftly  and  silently  away,  and, 
traversing  the  clachan,  was  soon  swallowed  up 
of  the  darkness. 

After  the  meal  was  ended,  Lora  found  herself 
overworn  with  excitement.  All  wish  to  go  out 


24  Pharais. 

again  went  from  her.  From  where  she  lay 
resting,  she  watched  Mrs.  Maclean  put  away 
the  things  and  then  seat  herself  by  the  fire. 

For  a  long  time  neither  woman  spoke.  A 
drowsy  peace  abode  upon  the  threshold. 
The  hot  red  glow  of  the  peats  shone  steadily. 
At  first  there  had  been  a  little  lamp  on  the 
table,  but  after  a  time  Mrs.  Maclean  had  extin 
guished  it.  Instead,  she  had  thrown  upon  the 
fire  a  log  of  pinewood.  The  dry  crackle,  the 
spurt  of  the  sap  as  it  simmered  in  the  heat, 
the  yellow  tongues  and  sudden  red  fangs  and 
blue  flames,  gave  the  sound  and  glow  whereof 
a  sweeter  silence  can  be  wrought  into  what  has 
been  but  stillness  before. 

An  hour  went  by.  With  brief  snatches  of 
talk,  all  made  up  of  fears  and  hopes,  another 
hour  passed.  Then  a  long  quietness  again, 
broken  at  the  last  by  a  low  crooning  song  from 
the  elder  woman,  as  she  leaned  to  the  fire  and 
stared  absently  into  its  heart.  The  song  was 
old :  older  than  the  oldest  things,  save  the 
summits  of  the  mountains,  the  granite  isles,  and 
the  brooding  pain  of  the  sea.  Long  ago  it  had 
been  sung  by  wild  Celtic  voices,  before  ever 
spoken  word  was  writ  in  letters  —  before  that 
again,  mayhap,  and  caught  perhaps  from  a 
wailing  Pictish  mother  —  so  ancient  was  the 
moving  old-world  strain,  so  antique  the  words 
of  the  lullaby  that  was  dim  with  age  when  it 
soothed  to  sleep  the  child  Ossian,  son  of 
Fin  gal. 

When  the  crooning  died  away,  Lora  slept. 


Pharais.  25 

With  soft  step  Mrs.  Maclean  moved  across  the 
room,  and  lightly  dropped  a  plaid  over  the  girl's 
figure,  recumbent  in  beautiful  ease  upon  the  low 
bed-couch. 

She  returned  slowly  to  her  place  by  the  fire. 
After  a  while  she  was  about  to  seat  herself, 
when  she  started  violently.  Surely  that  was 
a  face  pressed  for  a  moment  against  the 
window  ? 

With  a  strange  look  in  her  eyes,  she  reproved 
herself  for  her  nervous  folly.  She  sat  down, 
with  gaze  resolutely  fixt  on  the  glowing  peats : 
nor  would  she  have  stirred  again,  but  for  a 
sound  as  of  a  low  moan. 

The  blood  ran  chill  in  her  veins ;  her  mouth 
twitched;  and  the  intertwisted  fingers  of  her 
hands  were  white  and  lifeless  with  the  fierce  grip 
that  came  of  her  fear. 

But  she  was  not  a  woman  to  be  mastered  by 
terror.  With  a  quivering  sigh  she  rose,  looked 
round  the  room,  forced  herself  to  stare  fixedly 
at  the  window,  and  then  moved  quietly  to  the 
door. 

As  soon  as  she  felt  the  air  upon  her  brows 
she  became  calm,  and  all  dread  left  her. 

"Is  that  you,  Ian?  "  she  whispered. 

There  was  no  one  visible  ;  no  sound. 

"  Is  that  you,  Alastair  Macleod?  " 

So  low  was  the  utterance  that,  if  any  one  had 
been  there,  he  could  scarce  have  heard  it. 

To  her  strained  ears  it  was  as  though  she 
heard  a  light  susurrus  of  brushed  dew :  but  it 
might  be  a  wandering  breath  of  air  among  the 


26  Pharais. 

gale,  or  an  adder  moving  through  the  grass,  or 
a  fern-owl  hawking  under  the  rowan-trees. 

She  waited  a  little ;  then,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief,  re-entered  the  cottage  and  closed  the 
door. 

A  glance  at  Lora  showed  her  that  the  girl 
was  sleeping  unperturbed.  For  some  time 
thereafter  she  sat  by  the  fire,  brooding  over 
many  things.  Weary,  at  last,  she  rose,  cast  a 
farewell  glance  at  the  sleeper,  and  then  slipt 
quietly  to  her  bed  in  the  adjoining  room. 

Night  lay  passively  upon  the  sea,  upon  the 
isle,  upon  the  clachan.  Not  a  light  lingered 
in  any  cottage,  save  the  fire-glow  in  that  of 
Mary  Maclean  :  a  hollow,  attenuating  beam  that 
stared  through  the  dark  unwaveringly. 

Neither  star  nor  moon  was  visible.  The 
clouds  hung  low,  but  without  imminence  of  rain 
for  the  isles,  drawn  inland  as  the  vapours  were 
by  the  foreheads  of  the  bens. 

An  hour  later  the  door  of  the  cottage  opened 
and  closed  again,  silently.  It  was  Lora  who 
came  forth. 

She  walked  hesitatingly  at  first,  and  then 
more  swiftly,  not  pausing  till  she  reached  the 
little  boulder-pier.  There  she  stood  motion 
less,  listening  intently. 

The  water  lapped  among  the  hollows,  above 
which  the  ebb-left  shellfish  gaped  thirstily. 
There  was  a  lift  among  the  dulse-heaps,  as 
though  a  finger  stirred  them  and  let  loose  their 
keen  salt  smells.  The  bladder-wrack  moved 
with  strange  noises,  sometimes  startlingly  loud, 


•  Pharais.  27 

oftenest  as  if  sea-things  were  being  stifled  or 
strangled. 

From  the  promontory  came  a  cry :  abrupt, 
strident  —  the  hunger-note  of  a  skua.  The  thin 
pipe  of  the  dotterel  fell  into  the  darkness  be 
yond  the  shallows  where  the  sea-mist  lay.  In 
the  Kyle  a  muffled,  stertorous  breath,  near  and 
twice  as  far  away,  told  that  two  whales  were  in 
the  wake  of  the  mackerel. 

From  the  isle,  no  sound.  The  sheep  lay  on 
the  thyme,  or  among  the  bracken,  still  as  white 
boulders.  The  kye  crouched,  with  misty  nos 
trils  laid  low  to  the  damp  grass,  rough  with 
tangled  gale.  The  dogs  were  silent.  Even 
the  tufted  canna  hung  straight  and  motionless. 
The  white  moths  had,  one  by  one,  fallen  like 
a  fallen  feather.  The  wind -death  lay  upon  all : 
at  the  last,  too,  upon  the  sea. 


28  Pharais. 


II. 


SLOWLY,  as  though  a  veil  were  withdrawn, 
the  cloudy  dusk  passed  from  the  lift.  The 
moon,  lying  in  violet  shadow,  grew  golden : 
while  the  sheen  of  her  pathway,  trailed  waver- 
ingly  across  the  sea  and  athwart  the  isle,  made 
Innisr6n  seem  as  a  beautiful  body  motionlessly 
adrift  on  the  deep. 

One  by  one  the  stars  came  forth  —  solemn 
eyes  watching  for  ever  the  white  procession 
move  onward  orderly  where  there  is  neither 
height,  nor  depth,  nor  beginning,  nor  end. 

In  the  vast  stellar  space  the  moon-glow 
waned  until  it  grew  cold,  white,  ineffably  re 
mote.  Only  upon  our  little  dusky  earth,  upon 
our  restless  span  of  waters,  the  light  descended 
in  a  tender  warmth.  Drifting  upon  the  sea,  it 
moved  tremulously  onward,  weaving  the  dark 
waters  into  a  weft  of  living  beauty. 

Strange  murmur  of  ocean,  even  when  deep 
calm  prevails,  and  not  the  most  homeless  wind 
lifts  a  weary  wing  from  wave- gulf  to  wave -gulf. 
As  a  voice  heard  in  dream ;  as  a  whisper  in 
the  twilight  of  one's  own  soul ;  as  a  breath,  as 
a  sigh  from  one  knows  not  whence,  heard  sud 
denly  and  with  recognising  awe ;  so  is  this 
obscure,  troublous  echo  of  a  tumult  that  is 


Pharais.  29 

over,  that  is  not,  but  that  may  be,  that 
awaiteth. 

To  Lora  it  was  almost  inaudible.  Rather, 
her  ears  held  no  other  sound  than  the  bab 
bling  repetitive  chime  and  whisper  of  the  lip 
of  the  sea  moving  to  and  fro  the  pebbles  on 
the  narrow  strand  just  beyond  her. 

Her  eyes  saw  the  lift  of  the  dark,  the  lovely 
advance  of  the  lunar  twilight,  the  miracle  of 
the  yellow  bloom  —  golden  here  and  here 
white  as  frost-fire — upon  sea  and  land:  they 
saw,  and  yet  saw  not.  Her  ears  heard  the 
muffled  voice  of  ocean  and  the  sweet  recurrent 
whispering  of  the  foam-white  runnels  beside 
her :  they  heard,  and  yet  heard  not. 

Surely,  in  the  darkness,  in  the  loneliness,  she 
would  have  knowledge  of  Alastair.  Surely,  she 
thought,  he  would  come  to  her  in  the  spirit. 
In  deep  love  there  is  a  living  invisible  line  from 
soul  to  soul  whereby  portent  of  joy  or  disaster, 
or  passion  of  loneliness,  or  passion  of  fear,  or 
passion  of  longing  may  be  conveyed  with  ter 
rifying  surety. 

How  beyond  words  dreadful  was  this  remote 
ness  which  environed  her,  as  the  vast  dome  of 
night  to  a  single  white  flower  growing  solitary 
in  a  waste  place. 

Inland  upon  the  isle,  seaward,  skyward,  Lora 
looked  with  aching  eyes.  The  moonlight 
wounded  her  with  its  peace.  The  shimmering 
sea  beat  to  a  rhythm  atune  to  a  larger  throb 
than  that  of  a  petty  human  life.  In  the  starry 
infinitude  her  fmitude  was  lost,  absorbed,  as  a 


30  Pharais. 

grain  of  sand  wind-blown  a  few  yards  across  an 
illimitable  desert. 

That  passionate  protest  of  the  soul  against 
the  absolute  unheed  of  nature  was  hers :  that 
already  defeated  revolt  of  the  whirling  leaf 
against  the  soaring,  far-come,  far-going  wind 
that  knows  nothing  of  what  happens  beneath  it 
in  the  drift  of  its  inevitable  passage. 

With  a  sob,  she  turned,  vaguely  yearning  for 
the  human  peace  that  abode  in  the  cottage. 
As  she  moved,  she  saw  a  shadow,  solidly  clear- 
cut  in  the  moonlight,  sweep  from  a  rock  close 
by,  as  though  it  were  a  swinging  scythe. 

Instinctively  she  glanced  upward,  to  see  if 
the  cloud-counterpart  were  overhead.  The  sky 
was  now  cloudless  :  neither  passing  vapour  nor 
travelling  wild- swan  had  made  that  shadow  leap 
from  the  smooth  boulder  into  the  darkness. 

She  trembled :  for  she  feared  she  had  seen 
the  Watcher  of  the  Dead.  At  the  wane  of  the 
last  moon,  an  old  islesman  had  passed  into  the 
white  sleep.  Lora  knew  that  his  spirit  would 
have  to  become  the  Watcher  of  Graves  till  such 
time  as  another  soul  should  lapse  into  the 
silence.  Was  this  he,  she  wondered  with  in 
stinctive  dread  —  was  this  Fergus,  weary  of  his 
vigil,  errant  about  the  isle  which  had  been  the 
world  to  him,  a  drifting  shadow  from  graveyard 
to  byre  and  sheiling,  from  fold  to  dark  fold, 
from  the  clachan-end  to  the  shore-pastures, 
from  coble  to  havened  coble,  from  the  place 
of  the  boats  to  the  ferry-rock?  Did  he  know 
that  he  would  soon  have  one  to  take  over  from 


Pharais.  3 1 

him  his  dreadful  peace?  Or  was  he  in  no 
satiate  peace,  but  an-hungered  as  a  beast  of 
prey  for  the  death  of  another  ?  And  then  .  .  . 
and  then  .  .  .  who  was  this  other?  Who  next 
upon  the  isle  would  be  the  Watcher  of  the 
Dead? 

With  a  low,  shuddering  breath,  she  sighed, 
"Fergus/" 

The  fall  of  her  voice  through  the  silence  was 
an  echo  of  terror.  She  clasped  her  hands 
across  her  breast.  Her  body  swayed  forward 
as  a  bulrush  before  the  wind. 

"Ah,  Dia  !  Dial"  broke  from  her  lips; 
for,  beyond  all  doubt,  she  saw  once  again  the 
moving  of  a  darkness  within  the  dark. 

Yet  what  she  saw  was  no  shadow-man  weary 
of  last  vigil,  but  something  that  for  a  moment 
filled  her  with  the  blindness  of  dread.  Was  it 
possible?  Was  she  waylaid  by  one  of  those 
terrible  dwellers  in  twilight-water  of  which  she 
had  heard  so  often  from  the  tellers  of  old  tales  ? 

"  Toradh  nu  fhidalach  gun  amfaicinn"  she 
muttered  with  cold  lips  :  "  the  offspring  of  the 
cattle  that  have  not  been  seen  !  " 

"  Ah,  no,  no  ! "  she  cried.  The  next  mo 
ment,  and  with  a  sob  of  relief,  she  saw  a  moon 
beam  steal  upon  the  hollow  and  reveal  its 
quietude  of  dusk.  She  would  have  moved  at 
once  from  boulder  to  boulder,  eager  for  that  lost 
sanctuary  whence  she  had  come  —  when  the 
very  pulse  of  her  heart  sprang  to  the  burst  of  a 
human  sob  close  by. 

She  stood  still,  as  though  frozen.     A  moment 


3  2  Pharais. 

before,  the  breath  from  her  lips  was  visible : 
now  not  the  faintest  vapour  melted  into  the 
night-air. 

Was  she  dreaming,  she  wondered,  when  the 
stifling  grip  at  her  heart  had  mercifully  relaxed. 

No  :  there  was  no  mistake.  Blent  with  the 
gurgle  and  cluck  and  whisper  of  the  water  among 
the  lifted  bladder-wrack  and  in  and  out  of  the 
pools  and  crannies  in  the  rocks,  there  was  the 
piteous  sound  of  a  human  sob. 

All  at  once,  everything  became  clear  to  Lora. 
She  knew  that  Alastair  was  near :  she  did  not 
even  dread  that  he  was  present  as  a  disembodied 
spirit.  He  had  reached  the  isle  after  all,  but  in 
some  strange  sorrow  had  not  sought  her 
straightway. 

"  Alastair  !  "  she  cried  yearningly. 

No  one  answered  ;  no  one  stirred  ;  nothing 
moved.  But  the  muffled  sobbing  was  hushed. 

"  Alastair  !     Alastair  !  " 

Slowly  from  a  sand-drift  beside  the  ferry-rock 
a  tall  figure  arose.  For  a  few  moments  it  stood 
motionless,  black  against  the  yellow  shine  of  the 
moon.  The  face  was  pale ;  that  of  a  man,  young, 
with  the  thin  lips,  the  shadowy  eyes  that  in  sun 
light  would  shine  sea-blue,  the  high  oval  features, 
the  tangled,  curly,  yellow-tawny  hair  of  the  isles- 
men  of  the  ancient  Suderoer,  in  whose  veins  the 
Celtic  and  the  Scandinavian  strains  commingle. 

Alastair  was  as  visible  as  though  he  were  in 
the  noon-light. 

Lora  looked  at  him,  speechless.  She  saw  that 
in  his  strained  eyes,  in  his  wrought  features, 


Pharais. 


33 


which  told  her  he  had  drunken  of  sorrow.  His 
dishevelled  hair,  his  whole  mien  and  appearance 
showed  that  he  was  in  some  dire  extremity. 

"  Alastair  /  " 

He  heard  the  low,  passionate  appeal,  but  at 
first  he  did  not  stir.  Then,  and  yet  as  though 
constrainedly  and  in  weariness,  he  raised  and 
stretched  forth  his  arms. 

Swift  as  a  gliding  shadow,  Lora  was  beside 
him,  and  claspt  to  his  heart. 

For  a  time,  neither  spoke.  His  heart  beat 
loud  and  heavily :  against  his  breast  her  head 
lay,  with  her  breath  coming  and  going  like  a 
wounded  bird  panting  in  the  green-gloom  of  the 
thicket. 

"O  Alastair,  Alastair,  what  is  it?  "  she  mur 
mured  at  last,  raising  her  head  and  looking  into 
his  pale,  distraught  face. 

"What  made  you  come  out  in  the  dark, 
Lora-midrean?  " 

"  I  could  not  rest.  I  was  too  unhappy.  I 
thought  —  I  thought  —  no,  I  do  not  think  I 
dared  to  believe  that  you  might  come  to-night 
after  all ;  but  something  made  me  long  to  go 
down  to  the  sea.  Did  you  see  me  only  now,  dear 
heart?" 

"  No,  Lora." 

For  a  moment  she  was  still,  while  she  gazed 
fixedly  at  Alastair. 

"  Ah,"  she  whispered  at  last,  "  then  you  have 

been  here  all  this  night,  and  I  not  knowing  it ! 

Ah,  Aluinn,  it  was  your  heart  crying  to  mine 

that  made  me  rise  and  leave  the  cottage  and 

3 


34 


Pharais. 


come  out  into  the  dark.  But  why  did  you  not 
come  to  me  ?  When  did  you  come  to  Innisron  ? 
How  did  you  come?  " 

"  Dear,  I  could  not  wait  for  the  Clansman. 
I  left  Greenock  three  hours  earlier  by  the  Foam, 
James  Gilchrist's  tug ;  for  he  undertook  to  put 
me  ashore  at  the  haven  below  Craig-Sionnach. 
Thence  I  walked  to  Dunmore.  But  I  was  not 
well,  Lora ;  and  I  was  so  long  on  the  way  that 
I  missed  the  Clansman  as  well  as  the  Dunmore 
herring-steamer.  Before  nightfall,  however,  I 
persuaded  Archibald  Macleod,  of  Tighnacraigh, 
to  bring  me  here  on  his  smack.  I  landed  at 
the  Rock  of  the  Seafolk.  It  was  already  dusk, 
and  my  heart  was  against  yours  in  longing,  my 
beautiful  gloom :  yet  over  me  came  such  a  sor 
row  that  I  could  not  bear  the  homing,  and  so 
moved  restlessly  from  shadow  to  shadow.  I  felt 
as  though  it  would  be  better  for  me  to  deal  with 
my  sorrow  alone  and  in  the  night,  and  that  it 
was  more  bearable  since  I  was  so  near  you,  and 
that  any  moment  I  could  go  to  you." 

"  Why,  why  did  you  not  come,  Alastair?  Oh, 
I  longed,  longed  for  you  so  ! " 

"  Once  I  came  close  to  the  cottage,  almost 
happy  since  I  knew  that  you  were  so  near  to 
me.  The  red  glow  that  warmed  the  dark  with 
out  comforted  me.  I  thought  I  would  look  in 
upon  you  for  a  moment ;  and  if  you  and  Mary 
were  awake  and  talking,  that  I  should  let  you 
know  I  had  come.  But  I  saw  that  you  lay  in 
sleep ;  and  I  had  scarce  time  to  withdraw  ere, 
as  I  feared,  Mary  saw  me  —  though  see  me, 


Pharais.  35 

indeed,  perhaps  she  did,  for  in  a  brief  while  she 
opened  the  door  and  came  out,  and  would  have 
discovered  me  but  that  I  moved  swiftly  to  the 
shadow  of  the  birk-shaws.  Then,  after  a  little, 
I  wandered  down  by  the  shore.  There  was  a 
voice  in  the  sea  —  calling,  calling.  It  was  so 
cool  and  sweet :  soft  was  the  balm  of  the  air  of 
it,  as  the  look  of  your  eyes,  Lora,  as  the  touch 
of  your  hand.  I  was  almost  healed  of  my  suffer 
ing,  when  suddenly  the  pain  in  my  head  sprang 
upon  me,  and  I  crouched  in  the  hollow  yonder, 
chill  with  the  sweat  of  my  agony." 

"  O  Alastair,  Alastair,  then  you  are  no  better  : 
that  great  doctor  you  went  so  far  to  see  has  done 
you  no  good?  " 

"  And  in  the  midst  of  my  pain,  Lora  my  Rest, 
I  saw  you  standing  by  the  sea  upon  the  ferry- 
ledge.  At  first  I  took  you  for  a  vision,  and  my 
heart  sank.  But  when  the  moonlight  reached 
the  isle  and  enfolded  you,  I  saw  that  it  was  you 
indeed.  And  once  more  my  pain  and  my 
sorrow  overcame  me." 

"  Alastair,  I  am  terrified  !  It  was  not  thus  for 
you  before  you  went  away.  Great  as  was  your 
pain,  you  had  not  this  gloom  of  sorrow.  Oh, 
what  is  it,  what  is  it,  dear  heart?  Tell  me,  tell 
me!" 

Slowly  Alastair  held  Lora  back  from  him,  and 
looked  long  and  searchingly  into  her  eyes. 

She  shrank,  in  an  apprehension  that,  like  a 
bird,  flew  bewildered  from  the  blinding  light 
that  flashed  out  of  the  darkness  —  a  vain 
bewilderment  of  foredoom. 


36  Pharais. 

Then,  with  a  great  effort,  she  bade  him  tell 
her  what  he  had  to  say. 

Too  well  he  knew  there  was  no  time  to  lose  : 
that  any  day,  any  moment,  his  dark  hour  would 
come  upon  him,  and  that  then  it  would  be  too 
late.  Yet  he  would  fain  have  waited. 

"  Lora,  have  you  heard  aught  said  by  any 
one  concerning  my  illness?" 

"Dear,  Father  Manus  told  me,  on  the  day 
you  went  away,  that  you  feared  the  trouble 
which  came  upon  your  father,  and  upon  your 
father's  father ;  and  oh,  Alastair  my  beloved, 
he  told  me  what  that  trouble  was." 

"  Then  you  know :  you  can  understand  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  That  which  now  appals  me  .  .  .  now  kills 
me." 

"Alastair!" 

"Yes,  Lora?" 

"  Oh,  Alastair,  Alastair,  you  do  not  mean 
that  .  .  .  that  .  .  .  you  too  .  .  .  you  are  ... 
are  .  .  .  that  you  have  the  .  .  .  the  .  .  . 
mind-dark?" 

"  Dear  heart  of  mine,  this  sorrow  has  come 
to  us.  I " 

With  a  sharp  cry  Lora  held  him  to  her, 
despairingly,  wildly,  as  though  even  at  that  mo 
ment  he  were  to  be  snatched  from  her.  Then, 
in  a  passion  of  sobbing,  she  shook  in  his  arms 
as  a  withered  aspen-leaf  ere  it  fall  to  the  wind. 

The  tears  ran  down  his  face;  his  mouth 
twitched ;  his  long,  thin  fingers  moved  restlessly 
in  her  hair  and  upon  her  quivering  shoulder. 


Pharais.  37 

No  other  sound  than  her  convulsive  sobs, 
than  his  spasmodic  breathing,  met  in  the 
quietude  of  whisper- music  exhaled  as  an  odour 
by  the  sea  and  by  the  low  wind  among  the 
corries  and  upon  the  grasses  of  the  isle. 

A  white  moth  came  fluttering  slowly  towards 
them,  hovering  vaguely  awhile  overhead,  and 
then  drifting  alow  and  almost  to  their  feet.  In 
the  shadow  it  loomed  grey  and  formless  —  an 
obscure  thing  that  might  have  come  out  of  the 
heart  or  the  unguarded  brain.  Upward  again 
it  fluttered,  idly  this  way  and  that :  then  sud 
denly  alit  upon  the  hair  of  Alastair,  poising  itself 
on  spread  wings,  and  now  all  agleam  as  with 
pale  phosphorescent  fire,  where  the  moonlight 
filled  it  with  sheen  as  of  white  water  falling 
against  the  sun. 

The  gleam  caught  Lora's  eyes  as,  with  a 
weary  sigh,  she  lifted  her  head. 

A  strange  smile  came  into  her  face.  Slowly 
she  disengaged  her  right  arm,  and  half  raised 
it.  Alastair  was  about  to  speak,  but  her  eyes 
brought  silence  upon  him. 

"  Hush  !  "  she  whispered  at  last. 

He  saw  that  her  eyes  looked  beyond  his, 
beyond  him  as  it  seemed.  What  did  she  see? 
The  trouble  in  his  brain  moved  anew  at  this 
touch  of  mystery. 

"What  is  it,  Lora?" 

"  Hush,  hush  !  ...  I  see  a  sign  from  heaven 
upon  your  forehead  ...  the  sign  of  the  white 
peace  that  Sheumais  says  is  upon  them  who  are 
of  the  company  of  the  Beloved." 


38  Pharais. 

"Lora,  what  are  you  saying?  What  is  it? 
What  do  you  see?" 

His  voice  suddenly  was  harsh,  fretful.  Lora 
shrank  for  a  moment ;  then,  as  the  white  moth 
rose  and  fluttered  away  into  the  dark,  faintly 
agleam  with  moonfire  till  it  reached  the  shadow, 
she  pitifully  raised  her  hand  to  his  brow. 

"  Come,  dear,  let  us  go  in.  All  will  be  well 
with  us,  whatever  happens." 

"  Never  .  .  .  never  .  .  .  never ! " 

"  O  Alastair,  if  it  be  God's  will?  " 

"  Ay,  and  if  it  be  God's  will?  " 

"  I  cannot  lose  you ;  you  will  always  be  mine ; 
no  sorrow  can  part  us;  nothing  can  separate 
us;  nothing  but  the  Passing,  and  that  .  .  -" 

"  Lora ! " 

For  answer  she  looked  into  his  eyes. 

"  Lora,  it  is  of  that,  of  the  Passing :  .  .  . 
are  you  .  .  .  are  you  brave  enough  not  only  to 
endure  .  .  .  but  to  ...  if  we  thought  it  well 
...  if  I  asked  you  ...  ?  " 

A  deep  silence  fell  upon  both.  Hardly  did 
either  breathe.  By  some  strange  vagary  of  the 
strained  mind,  Lora  thought  the  throb  of  her 
heart  against  her  side  was  like  the  pulse  of  the 
engines  of  the  Clansman  to  which  she  had 
listened  with  such  intent  expectation  that  very 
evening. 

From  the  darkness  to  the  north  came  the 
low  monotone  of  the  sea,  as  a  muffled  voice 
prophesying  through  the  gates  of  Sleep  and 
Death.  Far  to  the  east  the  tide-race  tore 
through  the  Sound  with  a  confused  muttering 


Pharais.  39 

of  haste  and  tumult.  Upon  the  isle  the  wind 
moved  as  a  thing  in  pain,  or  idly  weary  :  lifting 
now  from  cranny  to  corrie,  and  through  glen 
and  hollow,  and  among  the  birk-shaws  and  the 
rowans,  with  long  sighs  and  whispers  where  by 
Uisghe-dhu  the  valley  of  moonflowers  sloped  to 
the  sea  on  the  west,  or  among  the  reeds,  and 
the  gale,  and  the  salt  grasses  around  the  clachan 
that  lay  duskily  still  on  the  little  brae  above  the 
haven. 

"  Lora  .  .  .  would  you  .  .  .  would  .  .  .  ? " 

Only  her  caught  breath  at  intervals  gave 
answer.  The  short  lisp  and  gurgle  of  the 
water  in  the  sea-weed  close  by  came  nearer. 
The  tide  was  on  the  flood,  and  the  sand  about 
their  feet  was  already  damp. 

The  immense  semicircle  of  the  sky  domed  sea 
and  land  with  infinity.  In  the  vast  space  the 
stars  and  planets  fulfilled  their  ordered  plan. 
Star  by  star,  planet  by  planet,  sun  by  sun,  uni 
verse  by  universe  moved  jocund  in  the  march 
of  eternal  death. 

Beyond  the  two  lonely  figures,  seaward,  the 
moon  swung,  green-gold  at  the  heart  with 
circumambient  flame  of  pearl. 

Beautiful  the  suspended  lamp  of  her  glory,  —  a 
censer  swung  before  the  Earth-Altar  of  the 
Unknown. 

In  their  human  pain  the  two  drew  closer 
still.  The  remote  alien  silences  of  the  larger 
life  around  vaguely  appalled  them.  Yet  Lora 
knew  what  was  in  his  thought ;  what  he  fore 
shadowed;  what  he  wished. 


4O  Pharais. 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  will,  Alastair,  heart  of  me, 
life  of  me,"  she  whispered.  Then,  with  clasp 
ing  arms,  and  dear  entreaty,  she  urged  him 
homeward. 

"  Come,  come  home,  Alastair,  Aluinn. 
Enough  of  sorrow  to-night.  Speak  to  me 
to-morrow  of  all  that  is  in  your  mind ;  but  to 
night  .  .  .  to-night,  no  more  !  My  heart  will 
break.  Come,  dearest.  Come,  mo  muirnean  / 
Hark !  the  wind  is  crying  in  the  corrie :  it  is 
rising  again  on  the  other  side  of  the  isle  :  and 
we  are  already  chill  —  oh,  cold,  so  cold  !  " 

Hand  in  hand,  they  moved  slowly  upward 
along  the  little  pathway  of  mingled  grass  and 
shingle  which  led  to  the  clachan  from  the  ferry  : 
he  with  bowed  head,  she  with  upward  face. 

A  dog  barked  from  a  byre,  another  answered 
from  a  sheiling  beyond.  Suddenly  there  was  a 
rushing  sound,  and  Ghaoth,  Alastair1  s  dog,  came 
leaping  upon  his  master,  whining  and  barking 
with  joy.  He  stooped  and  fondled  it ;  but  in  vain 
tried  to  quell  its  ecstasy  in  seeing  him  again. 

Whether  aroused  by  the  barking  of  Ghaoth, 
or  having  awoke  and  found  Lora  absent  from  the 
cottage,  Mrs.  Maclean  had  risen,  lit  a  candle, 
and  now  stood  upon  the  threshold,  looking 
intently  at  the  twain  as  they  approached. 

Among  the  islefolk  many  words  are  not 
used.  The  over-arching  majesty  of  the  sky, 
the  surrounding  majesty  of  the  sea,  the  loneli 
ness  of  these  little  wind-swept  spots  of  earth 
isled  in  remote  waters,  leave  a  hush  upon  the 
brain,  and  foster  eloquent  silences  rather  than 
idle  words. 


Pharais.  41 

Mrs.  Maclean  knew  intuitively  that  something 
of  disaster  was  in  this  nocturnal  return  of 
Alastair  :  that  he  and  Lora  had  met  by  chance, 
or  through  a  summons  unknown  to  her :  and 
that  now  they  came  —  to  her,  in  their  youth,  so 
tragically  piteous  under  the  shadow  of  calamity 
—  craving  only  for  that  impossible  boon  of  the 
young  in  sorrow :  peace. 

When  they  drew  near  to  her,  she  turned  and 
placed  the  candle  on  the  table.  Then,  facing 
them,  she  came  forward,  led  them  in  by  the 
hand,  and  closed  the  door.  She  saw  that 
Alastair  was  hatless,  and  his  clothes  damp  and 
travel-stained  ;  so  with  quiet,  homesweet  words, 
she  persuaded  him  to  change  his  things  while 
she  laid  some  food  for  him  to  break  his  long 
fast  with. 

But  though  wearily  he  did  the  one,  he  would 
have  nothing  of  the  other  save  a  draught  of 
warm  milk. 

A  heavy  drowsiness  was  now  upon  him.  He 
could  scarce  uplift  the  lids  from  his  eyes.  His 
voice,  when  he  spoke  at  all,  was  so  low  that  it 
was  barely  audible. 

After  a  silence,  during  which  he  had  looked 
long  at  the  fire,  and  closed  his  eyes  at  the  last, 
with  Lora's  gaze  hungrily  set  upon  him,  and  the 
dark,  sweet  gloom  of  Mrs.  Maclean's,  wet  with 
the  dew  of  unshed  tears,  upon  both  of  the  twain 
whom  she  loved  so  passing  well,  he  murmured 
huskily  and  confusedly  — 

"  By  green  pastures  ...  I  will  lay  me  down 
to  sleep.  ...  It  calleth,  calleth  .  .  ." 


42  Pharais. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Maclean  arose.  Taking  Lora's 
hand,  she  led  her  to  the  fireside  and  motioned 
her  to  kneel  beside  Alastair.  Then,  blowing 
out  the  candle- flame,  she  too  knelt.  Only  the 
fireglow  now  lit  the  room,  rilled  with  brooding 
shadows  in  the  corners  and  with  warm  dusk 
where  the  two  women  kneeled  and  the  man  slept. 

With  arms  lifted  as  if  in  invocation,  the  elder 
woman — her  face  wan  under  her  grey  hair, 
though  touched  with  an  unreal  glow  from  the 
flaming  peats  —  in  a  low,  crooning  voice,  re 
peated  the  ancient  rest-words,  the  ancient 
prayer  of  her  people,  said  at  the  covering  up  of 
the  fire  against  the  hours  of  sleep :  — 

Smalaidh  mis'n  nochd  an  teine  ; 

Mar  a  smalas  Mac  Moire. 

Gtt'm  bu  slan  an  tigtis  an  teine, 

Gu'm  bu  slan  a*  chiudeachd  uile. 

Co  bhios  air  an  lar  ? 

Peadair  agus  Pbl, 

Co  bhios  airanfhaire  nochd? 

Moire  mhin-gheaVs  a  Mac. 

Bial  De  a  labhras, 

Aingeal  geal  a  dk'  inn  seas  — 

Ga'r  comhnadh's  ga'r  gleidheadh 

Gus  an  tig  an  solus  geal  a  maireack. 

I  will  cover  up  the  fire  aright, 

Even  as  directed  by  the  Virgin's  Son. 

Safe  be  the  house,  and  safe  the  fire, 

And  safe  from  harm  be  all  the  indwellers. 

Who  is  that  that  I  see  on  the  floor  ? 

Even  Peter  himself  and  Paul. 

Upon  whom  shall  this  night's  vigil  rest  ? 

Upon  the  blameless  Virgin  and  her  Son  : 

God's  mouth  has  spoken  it. 

A  white-robed  angel  shall  be  with  us  in  the  dark, 

Till  the  coming  of  the  sun  at  morn. 


Pharais.  43 

When  she  ceased,  there  was  no  sound  save 
the  low  sobbing  of  Lora  and  the  quiet  breath 
ing  of  the  sleeper  in  the  high-backed  chair. 

Having  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  upon  her 
breast  and  over  the  fire,  she  covered  up  the 
flame  with  ash  and  charred  peat.  Quietly, 
then,  she  placed  her  strong  arm  around  Alastair, 
and  half  guided,  half  lifted  him  to  the  bed  in 
the  adjoining  room  where  he  and  Lora  were 
wont  to  sleep.  The  girl-wife  followed,  and, 
with  deft  hands,  unclad  Alastair  and  laid  him 
gently  in  the  bed.  Swiftly  disrobing  herself, 
she  lay  down  by  his  side,  her  dark  hair  mingling 
on  the  pillow  with  his  tangle  of  dull  gold. 

The  gleam  still  emitted  between  the  bars 
from  beneath  the  covered  peats  passed  into  the 
room  through  the  open  doorway  and  fell  upon 
the  bed. 

Alastair  stirred;  opened  his  eyes;  looked 
with  wild,  startled  gaze  at  Lora,  then  at  Mrs. 
Maclean,  who  had  again  knelt,  and  with  raised 
arms  had  begun  her  "  Blessing  of  Peace." 

With  a  sigh  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  the  ter 
ror  passed  from  his  face.  Once  or  twice  he 
muttered  parts  of  the  lines  of  that  ancient 
sleep-prayer,  familiar  to  him  since  his  boyhood, 
and  before  it  was  ended  deep  slumber  had  come 
upon  him. 

Laidhidh  misc  ^nochd 

Le  Moire  'j  le  ''Mac, 

Le  mathair  mo  Righ, 

1 PA7  mo  dhion  'o  dhroch-bheairt, 

Cha  laidh  mise  lets  an  olc, 

'S  cha  laidh  an  f  olc  learn  ; 

Ac/i  laidhidh  ml  le  Dia, 


44  Pharais. 

'Slaidkidk  Dia  Ma?  rium. 

Lamh  dheas  Dhcfo'm  cheannt 

Crois  nan  naoi  aingeal  learn. 

'O  mhullach  mo  chinn 

Gu  craican  mo  bhonn. 

Guidheam  Peadair,  guidheam  Pdl, 

Guidheam  Moir-Oigh*  'sa  Mac. 

Guidheam  an  da  ostal  deugt 

Gun  mise  'dhol  eug  le'n  cead. 

'Dhia  'sa  Mhoire  nagloire. 

'S  a  Mhic  na  oighe  cubhraidh 

Cumabh  mise  o  na  piantan  dorcha, 

'S  Micheal  geal*  an  cb  'ail  irfanama. 

This  night  I  will  lay  me  down  to  sleep 

With  Mary  Virgin  and  her  Son, 

Even  with  the  mother  of  my  King, 

Who  protects  me  from  all  evil ; 

Nor  shall  evil  lie  down  to  sleep  with  me, 

But  I  shall  sleep  with  God : 

And  with  me  shall  God  lie  down. 

His  right  arm  shall  be  under  my  head : 

The  cross  of  the  Nine  Angels  be  about  me, 

From  the  top  of  my  head 

To  the  soles  of  my  feet. 

I  supplicate  Peter,  I  supplicate  Paul, 

I  supplicate  Mary  the  Virgin  and  her  Son, 

I  supplicate  the  twelve  Apostles, 

That  evil  befall  us  not  this  night. 

Mary,  in  thy  goodness  and  glory, 

And  Thou,  Son  of  the  sweet-savoured  Virgin, 

Protect  us  this  night  from  all  the  pains  of  dark 
ness. 

And  thou,  Michael,  guardian  of  souls,  abide  with 
us,  watching. 

When  she  looked  down,  at  the  end  of  her 
prayer,  Mary  saw  that  Lora's  eyes  also  were 
closed  ;  though  by  the  muttering  of  the  lips  she 
knew  her  dear  one  was  not  asleep. 

Softly  she  closed  the  door  behind  her ;  then, 


Pharais.  45 

passing  by  the  fire,  went  into  the  third  room 
of  the  cottage. 

Soon  she  too  was  in  bed,  softly  repeating,  as 
the  weariness  of  sleep  came  over  her  — 

Cha  laidh  mise  lets  an  olct 
'S  cha  laidh  an  f  olc  learn. 

Without,  came  the  rising  sound  of  the  tide 
among  the  pebbles  on  the  shore,  the  incessant 
chime  of  wave  lapsing  over  wave  on  flat  rocks. 
The  sough  of  the  wind  fell  from  the  corries  of 
Craig- an- lolair,  and  died  in  whispers  among 
the  fern  and  dew-cold  grasses. 

So  went  the  hours  from  silence  into  silence. 
And  in  time  came  the  dawn,  and  an  ashen-grey 
upon  the  sea,  and  a  grey  gloom  upon  each  leaf 
and  every  dusky  frond  and  blade.  But  when 
the  black  of  the  mainland  became  gold,  and  a 
trouble  of  light  moved,  swiftly-throbbing,  across 
the  eastern  water,  Michael  the  Watcher 
withdrew. 

At  the  window  of  the  room  where  Alastair 
and  Lora  slept,  the  beautiful  sunflood  of  the 
new  day  poured  in  rejoicingly. 

One  long  streamer  of  light  fell  upon  his  yel 
low  hair  and  kissed  the  eyelids  of  a  veiled,  sub 
siding  mind.  Downward  it  moved,  and  filled 
with  its  gleam  the  dark-brown  hair  which  lay 
across  the  white  breast  of  Lora.  Then,  surely, 
it  passed  beneath  the  flower  of  her  bosom  and 
into  her  heart,  and  warmed  it  with  joy ;  for 
with  a  smile  she  awoke,  murmuring,  "  Pharais, 
Pharais:' 


46  Pharais. 


III. 


BEFORE  the  wane  of  that  day,  the  rumour 
went  among  the  scant  population  of 
Innisron  that  Alastair,  son  of  Diarmid  of 
Macleod,  was  mad  :  that,  in  the  phrasing  of  the 
isle  men,  he  had  the  mind-dark. 

Men  and  women  whispered  the  thing  with 
awe.  In  the  West,  something  almost  of  a 
hieratic  significance  is  involved  in  the  poetic 
phrase  that  God  has  filled  with  dusk  the  house 
of  the  brain.  Not  thus  is  spoken  of  the 
violence  of  insanity  —  the  mere  insurgence 
of  delirium  from  the  fever  of  hate,  or  from 
jealousy,  or  love,  or  evil  of  the  blood,  or  the 
curse  of  drink.  But  that  veil  of  darkness 
which  comes  down  upon  the  mind  of  man  or 
woman  in  the  fulness  of  life,  and  puts  an  im 
permeable  mist  or  a  twilight  of  awful  gloom 
about  the  soul,  is  looked  upon  not  only  with 
an  exceeding  tenderness,  but  with  awe,  and  as 
of  a  bowing  of  the  head  before  a  divine  mystery. 

Yet  the  rumour  was  not  true,  for  Alastair 
Macleod,  though  he  stood  within  the  shadow, 
had  not  yet  sunk  into  the  darkness. 

As  it  had  chanced,  Mrs.  Maclean  was  not  the 
only  person  who  had  seen  him  and  Lora  on  their 
return. 


Pharais.  47 

Late  in  the  night  Ian  Maclean  had  come 
back  from  the  western  side  of  the  isle,  and 
was  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  byre  when, 
hand  in  hand,  Lora  and  Alastair  approached. 

The  old  man  had  been  unhappy,  and,  after 
leaving  his  kinsman  at  Ardfeulan,  had  wandered 
up  among  the  corries.  In  the  wail  of  the  wind 
along  the  heights,  in  the  sough  of  it  in  the  little 
glens  and  shelving  uplands,  he  heard  voices  to 
which  he  would  fain  not  have  listened,  for  they 
spoke  of  a  terror  that  was  in  the  air. 

The  moment  he  saw  Alastair's  eyes,  dark 
within  the  moonlit  pallor  of  the  face,  he  knew 
that  his  premonitions  were  no  mere  imagin 
ings.  On  his  forehead  he  saw  the  shadow  of 
doom. 

With  a  sigh  he  turned,  and,  having  entered 
the  byre  and  gone  to  the  part  of  it  shut  off 
for  his  use,  lay  down  upon  his  bed  of  fragrant 
fern.  But,  weary  as  he  was,  he  could  not  sleep. 

Again  the  vision  came  to  him  :  and  once 
more  he  saw  Alastair  move  blindly  in  an  un 
familiar  place,  with  the  mist  no  longer  up  to 
his  waist  only,  but  risen  now  to  his  throat,  and 
with  thin  tongues  reaching  upward  still. 

The  long  night  went  drearily  past.  When 
the  day  was  come,  Ian  rose  and  let  out  the  kye. 
The  sweet  freshness  of  the  air  was  as  balm  to 
his  weariness.  The  wind  blew  cool  upon  his 
brows,  and  a  breath  of  the  sea  mingled  with  the 
myriad  suspiration  of  the  earth  and  gave  him 
the  intoxication  of  the  dawn.  His  eyes  grew 
brighter,  his  step  firmer,  his  mien  no  longer 


48  Pharais. 

that  of  profound  dejection ;  and  when  Ghaoth 
came  leaping  towards  him,  and  barked  about 
the  half  amused,  half  angry  cows  —  who 
stopped  to  plash  their  hooves  in  the  thick 
white  dew,  against  which  the  warm  breaths 
fell  revolvingly  like  grey  whorls  of  steam,  and 
to  swing  their  great  horns  against  their  flanks, 
wild  and  shaggy  as  the  brown  hill-sides  in 
autumn  —  then  all  the  gloom  of  the  night  went 
from  him. 

"  Mayhap  it  was  but  a  dream,"  he  muttered : 
"and  who  can  tell  the  folly  of  the  mind?" 

Then,  with  Ghaoth's  help,  he  got  the  steers 
from  the  neighbouring  shed  and  "Righ-geal," 
the  great  tawny-shaggy  bull,  whose  either  horn 
could  have  pierced  right  through  and  beyond 
the  biggest  drover  who  ever  crossed  the  Kyles 
at  Colintraive,  and  urged  all  the  kine  upward 
to  the  higher  pastures,  where  the  thyme  was 
so  sweet,  close-clustered  as  it  was  among  the 
soft  green  hair  of  the  isle-grass. 

It  seemed  to  him  as  though  all  the  larks  on 
Innisron  were  singing  at  one  time  and  just 
there,  everywhere  around  and  above  him.  In 
the  birk-shaws,  there  was  a  mavis  that  was  as 
a  fount  wherefrom  music  spilled  intoxicatingly : 
by  the  burn,  the  merles  called,  re-called,  and 
called  yet  again,  and  over  and  over,  sweet  and 
blithe,  and  with  loud,  reckless  cries  of  mirth 
and  joy.  On  every  gorse-bush,  yellow  with 
bloom,  fragrant  almost  to  pain,  and  filled  with 
the  murmur  of  the  wild-bee  and  the  high,  thin 
hum  of  the  wood- wasp,  a  yellow-hammer 


Pharais.  49 

flitted  to  and  fro,  or  sang  its  tweet —  tweet — 
tweet  —  o-O'Oh  sweet  /  —  sweet ! 

The  sky  was  almost  cloudless  save  for  an 
angry  flush  in  the  north-east  —  a  deep,  living 
blue  of  infinite,  though  indiscernibly  faint 
gradation.  Here  and  there,  too,  were  thin, 
almost  invisible  grey  mare's-tails  swept  upward, 
as  though  they  were  snow-dust  or  sea-spray,  be 
fore  the  flying  feet  of  the  Weaver  of  the  Winds. 

As  soon  as  Ian  had  reached  the  last  dyke, 
and  had  seen  "  Righ-geal "  lead  his  impatient 
following  towards  the  uplands,  he  stood  swaying 
his  grey  head  slowly  to  and  fro,  with  his  right 
hand  moving  automatically  in  rhythmic  accord, 
while  he  repeated  the  familiar  "Rann  Buac- 
bailleac,"  or  Rune  on  the  driving  of  the  cattle 
to  the  pastures  :  — 


Siubhal  beinne,  siubhal  baile, 

Siubhal  gu  re  fada  farsuinn  ; 

Buachaille  Mhic  De  m'ar  casaibh, 

Gu  mu  slan  a  thig  sibh  dachaidh, 
Buachaille  Mkic  De  m'ar  casaibh , 
Gu  mu  slan  a  thig  sibh  dachaidh. 

II. 

ComraigDhia  agus  Chalum-Chille, 
Bhith  m'ar  timchioll  afabtfs  a  tilleadh^ 
Agus  nan  or-chiabh  down  / 

Agus  Banachaig  nan  basa  min~ghealt 

Bride  nan  or-chiabh  down  / 


Travel  ye  moorland,  travel  ye  townland, 
Travel  ye  gently  far  and  wide, 
4 


50  Pharais. 

God's  Son  be  the  Herdsman  about  your  feet, 
Whole  may  ye  home  return. 
God's  Son  be  the  Herdsman  about  your  feet, 
Whole  may  ye  home  return. 

The  protection  of  God  and  of  Columba, 
Encompass  your  going  and  coming  ; 
And  about  you  be  the  milkmaid  of  the  smooth 

white  palms, 

Bridget  of  the  clustering  hair,  golden  brown, 
And  about  you  be  the  milkmaid  of  the  smooth 

white  palms, 
Bridget  of  the  clustering  hair,  golden  brown ! 

Turning  aside,  the  shepherd  searched  here 
and  there  among  the  boulders  and  split  rocks 
which  everywhere  obtruded  from  the  sea  of 
heather.  For  a  time  his  quest  was  unrewarded ; 
but  just  as  he  was  about  to  relinquish  it  he  gave 
an  abrupt  exclamation.  He  had  seen  the 
Torranan,  that  rare  plant,  of  which  he  had 
often  heard,  but  had  never  found  :  and,  for  sure, 
he  would  never  have  sought  it  there,  for  it  was 
said  to  be  a  plant  of  the  sea's  lip  —  that  is  to 
say,  of  the  shore,  within  reach  of  the  tide- 
breath. 

Muttering  over  and  over,  "  Buainams*  thu 
thorranain!"  —  Let  me  pluck  thee,  Torranan, 
—  he  gained  the  precious  bloom  at  last,  and 
then,  holding  it  before  him,  half  spoke,  half 
chanted  this  ancient  incantation,  known  in  the 
isles  as  the  "  Eolas  an  Torranain,"  a  spell  of 
good  service  to  keep  the  cows  from  the  harm 
of  the  evil  eye,  and  also  to  increase  their 
milk. 


Pharais. 


Buainams'  thu  thoranain 

Lid  uile  bheannachd's  lid  uile  bhuaidh  — 

Let  me  pluck  thee,  Torranan  ! 
With  all  thy  blessedness  and  all  thy  virtue, 
The  nine  blessings  came  with  the  nine  parts, 
By  the  virtue  of  the  Torranan. 
The  hand  of  St.  Bride  with  me. 
I  am  now  to  pluck  thee. 

Let  me  pluck  thee,  Torranan ! 
With  thine  increase  as  to  sea  and  land ; 
With  the  flowing  tide  that  shall  know  no  ebbing, 
By  the  assistance  of  the  chaste  St.  Bride, 
The  holy  St.  Columba  directing  me, 
Gentle  Oran  protecting  me, 
And  St.  Michael,  of  high-crested  steeds, 
Imparting  virtue  to  the  matter  the  while, 
Darling  plant  of  all  virtue, 
I  am  now  plucking  thee ! 

All  the  time  the  old  man  had  been  care 
fully  disengaging  the  cream-white,  dome-shaped 
flower,  he  had  crooned  over  and  over,  — 

Lamh  Bhride  learn, 
Tha  mi  'nis  gd?d  bhuain  ! 

The  hand  of  St.  Bride  with  me, 
I  am  now  to  pluck  thee ! 

So,  too,  now — now  that  he  had  the  Tor 
ranan  safe  at  last,  he  kept  repeating 

'Cuir  buaidh  anns  an  ni, 

Tha  mo  lus  lurach  a  nis  air  a  bhuain  ! 

Darling  plant  of  all  virtue, 
I  am  now  plucking  thee ! 

But  the  line  that  was  on  his  lips  for  long 
that  day  —  even  after  he  had  given  the  flower 
to  Mary  Maclean,  with  assurance  that  it  was 


52  Pharais. 

gathered  during  the  lift  of  the  tide,  was  Rt 
lionadh  gun  trtfadh,  —  "  With  the  flowing  tide 
that  shall  know  no  ebbing."  Over  and  over 
he  said  this  below  his  breath.  Ri  lionadh 
gun  tra'adh ;  strange  words  these :  what  was 
the  hidden  thing  in  them?  What  was  the 
lionadhy  the  flowing  tide :  was  it  life  or 
death? 

But  now  the  rare  bloom  was  found  :  he  was 
glad  of  that.  He  doffed  his  weather-worn 
bonnet,  and  placed  the  flower  in  the  hollow 
of  it :  then,  calling  Ghaoth  from  the  already 
scattered  kye,  he  turned  and  made  his  way 
back  to  the  clachan. 

When  he  entered  Mrs.  Maclean's  cottage, 
where  his  breakfast  of  porridge  was  ready,  he 
made  and  received  the  usual  salutation  of 
blessing :  and  then  sat  down  in  silence. 

The  room  was  full  of  sunlight  —  so  full  that 
Mrs.  Maclean  had  hung  a  screen  of  bracken 
from  an  iron  hook,  so  that  it  shielded  the 
peat-fire  and  let  the  life  of  the  flame  burn 
unchecked. 

He  did  not  look  at  Alastair;  and,  indeed, 
all  the  morning-blitheness  had  gone  out  of  the 
eyes  of  the  old  man.  Not  that  any  there 
noticed  his  taciturnity.  Mrs.  Maclean  moved 
softly  to  and  fro.  Alastair  sat  broodingly  in 
the  leathern  chair  before  the  fire :  Lora  on  a 
stool  at  his  feet,  with  her  right  hand  claspt  in 
his  left  and  her  eyes  fixt  on  his  face.  On  the 
table  the  porridge  was  untouched,  the  new 
bread  uncut,  the  warm  milk  grown  tepid. 


Pharais.  53 

With  a  sigh,  Alastair  rose  at  last.  Crossing 
the  room,  he  went  to  the  east  window  and 
stared  forth  unseeingly,  or,  at  any  rate,  without 
sign  of  any  kind.  Then,  restlessly,  he  began 
to  pace  to  and  fro.  Repressing  her  tears,  Lora 
seated  herself  at  the  table  and  tried  to  eat, 
hopeful  that  she  might  thus  induce  him  to  do 
likewise.  Mrs.  Maclean  followed  her  example, 
but  ate  in  silence.  She  had  almost  ended,  when 
Lora  saw  that  she  had  abruptly  laid  down  her 
spoon  and  was  looking  intently  at  Ian. 

The  old  man  now  followed  every  motion  of 
the  invalid  with  a  look  as  of  one  fascinated. 
When,  suddenly,  Alastair  turned,  went  to  the 
door  and  crossed  the  threshold,  Ian  rose  and 
followed. 

A  few  seconds  later  he  came  back,  his  with 
ered  face  almost  as  white  as  his  hair. 

Mrs.  Maclean  met  him  ere  he  could  speak. 

" Not  a  word  before  her"  she  whispered. 
"  Meet  me  at  the  byre :  I  shall  be  there  in  a 
minute  or  two." 

But  just  then  Lora  rose  and  went  out. 

"Ian  Maclean,  what  is  it?" 

"  Mary,  my  kinswoman,  he  is  not  alone." 

"Not  alone?" 

"  I  have  seen  the  other." 

She  knew  now  what  he  meant.  He  had  seen 
the  shadow-self,  the  phantasm  of  the  living  that, 
ere  death,  is  often  seen  alongside  the  one  who 
shall  soon  die.  Mrs.  Maclean  knew  well  that 
this  shadowy  second-self  simulated  the  real  self, 
and  that  even  all  the  actions  of  the  body  were 


54  Pharais. 

reproduced  with  a  grotesque  verisimilitude.  But 
she  was  also  aware  how,  sometimes,  one  may 
learn  from  the  mien  of  the  phantasm  what  is 
hidden  in  the  aspect  of  the  doomed. 

"  Last  night,"  Ian  went  on  in  a  dull  voice, 
"I  had  the  sight  again.  I  saw  the  mist  of 
death  as  high  about  him  as  when  a  man  is 
sunken  in  a  peat-bog  up  to  the  eyes." 

"  Well?     I  know  you  have  more  to  say." 

"Ay." 

"Speak,  Ian!" 

With  a  long,  indrawn  breath,  the  old  man 
resumed  in  a  slow,  reluctant  voice. 

"When  I  came  in,  a  little  ago,  I  saw  the 
sorrow  there  was  on  every  face.  My  vision, 
too,  came  back  upon  me,  and  I  had  trouble. 
I  meant  to  eat  and  go  out  quickly.  But  when 
Mr.  Alastair  began  to  move  about,  I  saw  that 
he  was  not  alone.  I  knew  the  other  at  once. 
There  could  be  no  mistake.  In  dress,  in 
height,  in  face,  in  movement,  they  were  the 
same.  But  there  was  a  difference." 

Mrs.  Maclean  shuddered  slightly,  and  her  lips 
opened  as  though  she  were  about  to  speak.  With 
a  gesture,  however,  she  signed  to  Ian  to  continue. 

"Ay,  there  was  a  difference.  I  hoped 
against  my  eyes;  but  when  I  followed  him 
yonder  I  saw  what  I  saw,  and  what  killed  my 
hope." 

"  Speak,  speak,  Ian  !  " 

"In  all  things  the  same  but  one,  and  that 
was  in  the  eyes,  in  the  expression.  Those  of 
Mr.  Alastair  were  dull  and  lightless,  and  brood- 


Pharais.  55 

ing  low ;  those  of  the  other  were  large  and  wild, 
and  stared  in  terror  and  amaze;  and  on  the 
face  of  the  thing  the  Fear  lay,  and  moved,  and 
was  alive." 

" O  Ian,  Ian,  what  does  it  mean? " 

"  It  means  this,  Mary,  daughter  of  Donnacha, 
what,  sure,  you  know  well :  that  not  only  is  the 
shadow  of  death  near  this  house,  but  that  upon 
Alastair  Mac  Diarmid  is  the  mind-dark  that  lay 
upon  his  father  and  upon  his  father's  father." 

"The  curse  of  Michael  be  upon  this  evil, 
Ian ! " 

" Even  so,  Mhoire  nighean  Donnacha" 

"  His  father  was  the  third  of  his  race  in  suc 
cession,  who,  soon  or  late,  fell  under  that 
shadow.  And  we  all  know,  sure  we  all  know, 
that  after  the  third  generation  the  veil  is  with 
drawn.  This  thing  is  an  evil  dream  of  yours, 
Ian  Maclean ! " 

" It  is  an  evil  doing  of  some  one"  muttered 
the  old  man,  with  sombre  eyes. 

"Perhaps"  —  .  .  . 

But  before  Mrs.  Maclean  could  say  what  was 
in  her  mind,  Alastair  and  Lora  entered. 

With  downcast  eyes  Ian  passed  out,  giving  a 
furtive,  terrified  look  behind  him  ere  he  closed 
the  door. 

It  was  through  the  old  isleman  that  the 
rumour  of  Alastair  Macleod's  madness  went 
abroad. 

Long  before  the  stormy  afternoon  which  fol 
lowed  the  beautiful  youth  of  that  day,  with  its 


56  Pharais. 

ominous  morning-red  in  the  north-east,  had 
waned  to  gloaming,  there  was  not  a  soul  on 
Innisr6n  who  did  not  know  of  the  sorrow. 

Yet  no  one  came  near  out  of  a  cruel  sym 
pathy  :  no  one  spoke  heedless  words  either  of 
question  or  solace  to  Mrs.  Maclean ;  for  none 
could  be  said  to  the  two  most  concerned, 
neither  Alastair  nor  Lora  having  been  seen 
throughout  the  day. 

Nevertheless,  a  deep  resentment  prevailed 
against  one  person  upon  the  island.  Not  only 
had  the  Spring  gone  ill  with  the  fishing,  but  the 
nets  had  been  torn  and  trailed  in  a  way  that 
suggested  something  beyond  the  blind  malice 
of  wind  and  wave  and  the  currents  of  the  deep 
sea  and  the  savage  dog-fish.  Several  cows  had 
ceased  to  give  milk ;  hens  had  ceased  to  lay ; 
and  Gregor  McGregor's  white  mare  had  dropped 
a  dead  foal,  the  first  time  such  a  thing  had 
happened  on  the  isle.  And  now  that,  unfore 
seen  and  in  the  heyday  of  youth  and  health, 
the  worst  of  all  troubles  had  come  upon  Alastair 
Macleod,  many  recalled  how  his  father,  Mac- 
leod  of  Dunvrechan,  who  had  died  on  Innisr6n, 
had  not  only  once  denounced  old  Ealasaid 
MacAodh  as  a  woman  of  the  evil  eye,  but  had 
cursed  her  ere  he  died,  and  attributed  his 
misery  to  a  blight  of  her  working. 

As  one  spake  to  another,  the  same  thought 
came  into  each  mind :  that  the  old  widow  who 
lived  at  Craig- Ruaidh,  at  the  head  of  the  Glen 
of  the  Dark  Water,  had  put  her  malice  upon 
Alastair  Mac  Diarmid, 


Pharais.  57 

Some  one,  in  a  group  by  the  ferry,  reminded 
her  hearers  that,  by  a  mischance,  every  one 
on  the  isle  save  Widow  MacAodh  had  been 
invited  to  the  feast  in  the  little  mission-house, 
when  "  Lora  nighean  maighstir  Tormaid"  was 
wedded ;  and  how  it  was  well  known  that  old 
Ealasaid  had  been  full  of  anger  and  pain  at  the 
slight,  and  had  since  scarce  spoken  with  any 
one  save  Mrs.  Maclean,  with  whom  no  bitter 
ness  was  ever  long  to  endure. 

"  Ay,  ay,  it 's  her  doing  —  it 's  her  doing," 
was  muttered  all  round;  "she  has  put  the 
spell  of  the  evil  eye  upon  him  —  foreigner  that 
she  is." 

Many  years  had  gone  by  since  Duncan  ban 
MacAodh,  a  Hebridean,  who  had  settled  in 
Innisron,  brought  thither  a  wife  out  of  remote 
St.  Kilda.  Long  since  he  had  gone  to  his  rest, 
and  lay  among  the  few  dead  under  the  great 
runic  cross  at  the  extreme  of  Ardfeulan,  on  the 
west  of  the  isle;  yet  he  was  still  "the  man 
from  Uist,"  as  his  widow  was  still  the  "out- 
lander." 

"  Ian,"  said  Pol  Macdonald,  one  of  the  oldest 
of  the  fishermen,  "  you  too  are  said  to  have  the 
tiling  in  you,  though  you  always  look  through 
both  eyes,  and  with  good  will  to  man  and  beast. 
Let  you,  and  two  others  of  us,  go  to-night  to 
Widow  Ealasaid's,  and  do  you  look  upon  her 
and  find  out  if  she  is  accursed :  .  .  .  and  then 
.  .  .  and  then  ..." 

No  one  spoke,  though  a  veiled  consenting 
glance  went  between  Macdonald  and  Ian  and 


58  Pharais. 

a  young  islesman,  Ronald  Macrae,  who  lived 
over  by  Ardfeulan. 

It  was  not  a  subject  to  discuss  further  in 
that  hour  of  uncertainty.  One  or  two  mem 
bers  of  the  group  had  already  edged  away, 
when  Kathia  Macdonald  suddenly  drew  atten 
tion  to  the  appearance  of  the  first  three  of 
the  returning  herring-boats,  anxiously  expected 
for  over  an  hour  past. 

The  brown-sailed  wherries  came  in  under  the 
lee  of  the  isle  in  a  smother  of  foam.  Already 
a  snarling  north-easter  was  racing  over  the  sea, 
still  smelling  of  the  ling  and  bracken  it  had 
flattened  as  it  tore  over  the  summits  of  the 
mainland  hills. 

The  water  was  of  a  shifting  emerald  near 
the  haven ;  of  a  dark  bottle-green  beyond ; 
and,  out  in  the  open,  black,  fretted  and  torn 
with  staring  white  splashes  and  a  myriad-leap 
ing  surge. 

The  race  of  the  sea-horses  had  begun,  and 
no  one  on  Innisron  was  at  ease  till  the  last 
boat  had  come  safely  round  from  Ardgheal, 
the  point  whence  on  the  yestereve  Lora  had 
so  eagerly  watched  for  the  coming  of  her 
husband. 

A  fiery  sunset  disclosed  the  immense  and 
swirling  procession  of  clouds  high  over  the 
isle  —  cloud  not  only  racing  after  cloud,  but 
often  leaping  one  upon  the  other  as  flying  sheep 
in  panic.  Towards  the  east,  the  vapours  were 
larger  and  darker:  the  cohorts  more  densely 
massed.  Above  the  mainland  stretched  one 


Pharais.  59 

vast  unbroken  phalanx  of  purple-livid  gloom, 
out  of  the  incessant  and  spasmodically  convul 
sive  travail  in  whose  depths  swept  monstrous 
cloudbirths. 

As  the  night  fell,  there  was  audible  beyond 
the  hills  the  noise  of  a  baffled  thunderstorm 
—  a  tempest  which  had  been  caught  among 
the  mountains,  and  could  no  more  lift  itself 
over  the  summits  than  a  screaming  and  wrest 
ling  eagle  could  tear  itself  from  a  stag  in 
whose  hide  its  talons  had  become  irremovably 
gript. 

Above  the  peaks  and  along  the  flank  of  the 
mass  of  livid  gloom,  spears  of  lightning  were 
swung  against  the  wind  ;  and  with  splinter  and 
flash,  there  was  a  rain  of  whirled  lances  as 
against  some  unseen  assault  from  below. 

The  tumult  soared,  hurled  downward,  and 
fell  upon  Innisron.  The  islefolk  listened  in  the 
dark  with  -awe.  Roar  and  crash,  and  a  frightful, 
terrifying  howling  followed  every  blast,  as  of  a 
volcano  belching  forth  avalanche  after  avalanche, 
and  shaking  to  the  valleys  the  debris  of  all  the 
hills.  Roar  upon  roar,  crash  upon  crash,  howl 
upon  howl :  with  the  strident  raucous  scream  of 
the  wind,  yelling  a  paean  of  triumph  as  it  leapt 
before  the  javelins  of  the  lightning  and  tore  in 
its  ruinous  might  far  out  across  the  heaving, 
swaying,  moaning  sea. 

It  was  a  night  for  all  who  fare  by  or  upon 
the  deep  waters  to  remember  with  awe :  for 
those  whose  lives,  and  kin,  and  gear  had  gone 
scatheless,  to  recollect  with  thanksgiving:  for 


60  Pharais. 

those  whose  weal  went  with  it,  to  recall  with 
bowed  heads  or  wet  eyes. 

An  hour  or  more  after  nightfall,  three  figures 
moved  with  the  wind  across  the  isle :  blurred 
shadows  astir  in  the  tempest-riven  dark.  Ronald 
Macrae  carried  a  lantern ;  but  speedily  laid  it 
down  by  a  cairn,  for  the  flame  could  not  live. 

He  and  Ian  and  P61  were  grimly  silent,  not 
only  on  the  path  through  the  wind-swept 
heather,  but  when  under  shelter  from  a  bight 
of  hillside  or  overhanging  crag.  The  business 
that  took  them  out  in  that  tempest  lay  heavy 
upon  them. 

If,  out  of  her  own  mouth,  or  by  sign  or  deed 
of  her  own,  Ealasaid  should  convict  herself  of 
the  use  of  the  evil  eye,  her  doom  would  be  fixt. 
Even  in  the  bitterness  of  superstition,  however, 
the  islemen  were  not  bent  upon  the  extreme 
penalty,  the  meed  of  those  who  deal  in  witch 
craft.  The  dwellers  on  Innisron,  as  all  who 
live  among  the  outer  isles  in  general,  are  too 
near  the  loneliness  of  life  and  death  to  be 
wanton  in  the  taking  away  of  that  which  is  so 
great  in  the  eyes  of  man  and  so  small  in  the 
eyes  of  God. 

The  worst  they  intended  was  to  make  Ealasaid 
bring  her  own  doom  upon  her:  then,  on  the 
morrow,  her  shelling  would  be  burned  to  the 
ground  and  the  ashes  scattered  to  the  four 
quarters,  while  she  herself  would  be  exiled 
from  the  island  under  ban  of  cross,  mystic 
word,  and  the  ancient  Celtic  anathema. 


Pharais.  61 

So  wild  was  the  wind  and  dark  the  way,  that 
a  full  hour  passed  before  they  reached  the  Glen 
of  the  Dark  Water,  and  heard  the  savage  ramp 
ing  and  charging  of  the  endless  squadrons  of 
the  waves  against  the  promontory  of  Ardfeulan. 

As  they  drew  near  the  little  cottage,  a  lonely 
dwelling  on  the  brae  which  sloped  to  the  glen, 
they  saw  that  the  occupant  had  not  yet  gone  to 
bed,  for  a  red  gleam  of  light  stole  comfortingly 
across  the  forlorn  dark. 

With  a  significant  touch  on  the  shoulder  of 
each  of  his  companions,  Ian  led  them  to  within 
a  yard  or  two  of  the  window. 

"  Hush,"  he  whispered,  in  a  momentary  lull ; 
"  make  no  noise  as  we  look  in.  She  might 
hear,  and  blast  us  with  her  evil  eye.  Perhaps 
she  is  even  now  talking  with  some  warlock  or 
fiend." 

Trembling,  the  three  men  huddled  under  the 
wall.  At  last,  slowly,  and  with  hearts  wildly 
athrob,  they  raised  themselves  and  looked 
within. 

The  room  was  bare  in  its  clean  poverty.  On 
the  rickety  wooden  table  was  a  bowl  with  a 
little  unfinished  porridge  in  it.  A  yard  away 
was  an  open  Gaelic  Bible,  with  a  pair  of  horn 
spectacles  laid  across  the  open  page.  At  a 
spinning  stool  between  the  table  and  the  peat- 
fire  was  an  old  woman,  kneeling,  with  her 
hands  claspt  and  her  face  upraised.  On  the 
poor,  tired,  worn  features  was  a  look  of  pathetic 
yearning,  straining  from  a  white  and  beautiful 
peace. 


62  Pharais. 

So  rapt  was  she  that  she  did  not  see  a  hand 
move  the  outer  latch  of  the  window,  or  feel  the 
sudden  breath  of  the  night-air. 

Then  those  without,  waiting  to  hearken  to 
sorcery  more  appalling  than  the  savagery  of 
the  tempest,  heard  old  Ealasaid  repeat  this 
prayer : 

Tha  '«  la  nis  air  falbh  bainn, 

Tha  'n  oidhche  'tighinn  orm  dlbth  ; 

'S  ni  mise  luidhe  gu  dion 

Fo  dhubhar  sgiath  mo  ritin. 

O  gach  cunnart  's  o  gach  bas, 

'So  gach  namhaid  th'  aig  Mac  Dhe, 

0  nadur  dhaoine  borba, 

*S  o  choirbteachd  mo  naduirfiin, 
Gabhaidh  mis'  a  nis  armachd  Dhet 
Gun  bhi  reubta  no  brisd\ 
>Sge  V  oil  leis  an  f  satan  's  le  phairt 
Bfdh  mis'  air  mo  gheard  a  nis. 

The  day  is  now  gone ; 
Dark  night  gathers  around, 
And  I  will  lay  me  safely  down  (to  sleep) 
Under  the  shadow  of  my  Beloved  One's  wing. 
Against  all  dangers,  and  death  in  every  form, 
Against  each  enemy  of  God's  good  Son, 
Against  the  anger  of  the  turbulent  people, 
And  against  the  corruption  of  my  own  nature, 

1  will  take  unto  me  the  armour  of  God  — 
That  shall  protect  me  from  all  assaults  : 
And  in  spite  of  Satan  and  all  his  following, 
I  shall  be  well  and  surely  guarded. 

When,  after  an  interval  of  speechless  prayer, 
the  lonely  old  woman  rose  painfully  to  her  feet, 
she  noticed  the  open  window,  and  heard  the 
sough  of  the  wind  without. 

With  a  tired  sigh,  she  crossed  the  room  to 


Pharais.  63 

close  the  inside  latch.  But,  at  the  window,  she 
stood  irresolute,  held  by  the  noise  of  the  sea 
beating  against  the  clamour  of  the  wind.  She 
stooped,  and  peered  forth. 

Not  a  thing  was  visible.  Suddenly  a  broad 
wavering  gleam  of  sheet-lightning  lit  up  the 
whole  brae.  Almost,  she  fancied,  she  could 
have  sworn  she  saw  three  human  figures,  with 
bowed  heads,  moving  across  the  brow  of  the 
slope. 

She  could  not  know  that  three  men,  stricken 
with  shame  and  remorse  —  remorse  which 
would  ere  long  bloom  into  the  white  flower  of 
repentance,  to  be  worn  lovingly  by  all  on  the 
isle  —  were  stealing  homeward  from  a  vain  and 
wicked  errand. 

With  a  shudder,  she  crossed  herself,  fearing 
that  the  figures  she  had  imagined,  or  had  really 
seen,  were  the  three  dreadful  Accursed  who 
drove  the  spear  into  Christ's  side  and  the  nails 
into  His  hands  and  feet,  and  with  mocking 
offered  Him  the  bitter  sponge. 

Slowly  repeating  — 

O  gach  cunnart  's  o  gach  bas, 

'S  o  gach  namhaid  th*  aig  Mac  Dhe, 

she  quenched  with  charred  peat  the  flame  of 
her  fire,  and  was  soon  in  a  child-like  rest 
"  under  the  shadow  of  the  wing  of  her  Beloved 
One." 

When  midnight  came  upon  the  isle,  the 
worst  violence  of  the  storm  was  over.  Never- 


64  Pharais. 

theless,  upon  the  sea  was  the  awfulness  of  des 
olation,  the  rumour  of  a  terrible  wrath. 

All  slept  at  last :  the  innocent  Ealasaid,  the 
foolish  seekers  of  evil,  the  islefolk  one  and  all 
—  except  two. 

Alastair  and  Lora  lay  in  each  others'  arms  as 
children  terrified  in  the  dark. 

That  afternoon  his  madness  had  come  upon 
him  for  a  while ;  and  he  had  smiled  grimly  at 
he  knew  not  what,  and  laughed  while  the  tears 
streamed  from  the  eyes  of  Lora  and  Mary; 
and  moaned  betimes ;  and  cried  out  against  the 
calling  of  the  sea ;  and  closed  his  ears  against  the 
frightful  wailing  of  a  kelpie  in  the  tarn  beyond 
the  byre ;  and,  at  the  last,  shook  as  in  an  ague 
before  the  fire,  fearful  of  some  informulate  ter 
ror,  but  with  such  a  crown  of  sorrow  on  his 
forehead  that  the  two  women  bowed  their  faces 
in  their  hands,  speechless  with  grief :  with  such 
a  horror  in  his  eyes  that  Ghaoth  shrank  from 
him  with  bristling  fell  and  upcurled,  snarling  lip. 

But  with  the  night  came  yet  another  merciful 
lifting  of  the  veil. 

While  the  storm  raged  at  its  worst,  the  three 
kneeled,  and  Mrs.  Maclean  read  from  the 
beautiful  Gaelic  Scripture.  Then,  with  all  the 
tenderness  of  her  childless  passion  of  maternity, 
she  prayed  for  God's  balm  and  peace  and  the 
healing  of  His  hand. 

When,  in  time,  she  went  to  her  own  room, 
Alastair  and  Lora  talked  for  long  in  a  low  voice. 

On  the  day  he  had  first  heard  that  the  seed 
of  life  had  taken  root  in  her  womb,  and  knew 


Pharais.  65 

that  a  child  was  to  be  born  of  their  great  love, 
he  had  known  a  thrill  of  such  rapture  that  he 
could  scarce  see  Lora  for  the  blinding  of  the 
tears  of  joy. 

Beautiful  she  was  to  all :  to  him,  lovely  and 
tender  as  twilight  and  dear  beyond  words  :  but 
at  that  moment,  when  he  learned  from  her  own 
lips  of  her  only  half  explicable  trouble,  he  knew 
he  had  passed  into  a  Holy  of  Holies  of  love  and 
reverent  passion  such  as  he  had  but  vaguely 
dreamed  of  as  possible. 

But  now,  on  this  wild  night  of  storm  without 
and  more  awful  dread  within,  he  recalled  with 
horror  what  had  been  driven  from  his  mind. 

Bitter  as  was  the  doom  he  and  Lora  had  to 
face,  tenfold  bitter  was  it  made  by  the  thought 
that  they  were  to  bring  into  the  world  yet  another 
soul  shrouded  in  the  shadow  of  his  own  intoler 
able  ill. 

And  so  it  was  that,  at  the  last,  Alastair  and 
Lora  Macleod,  knowing  his  madness  was  at 
hand  and  could  be  cured  of  no  man,  and  that 
their  lives  were  spilled  out  as  lees  from  a  cup, 
and  that  they  were  witlessly  dooming  the  unborn 
child  to  a  heritage  of  grief,  gave  solemn  troth  to 
each  other  that  on  the  morrow  they  would  go 
forth  hand  in  hand,  and,  together  in  death  as  in 
life,  lay  themselves  beneath  that  ever  wandering 
yet  ever  returning  wave  which  beats  day  and 
night,  and  week  by  week,  and  year  by  year,  and 
without  end  for  ever,  about  the  sea-gathered 
graveyard  on  the  remote  west  of  Innisron. 

Then  was  a  great  peace  theirs.      For  the  last 


66  Pharais. 

time  they  laid  themselves  down  on  their  bed : 
for  the  last  time  twined  their  arms  around  each 
other,  while  on  the  same  pillow  their  heads  lay 
side  by  side,  the  hair  about  his  forehead  wet 
with  her  falling  tears :  for  the  last  time  they  kept 
vigil  through  the  terror  of  the  dark  —  an  awful 
terror  now,  with  the  wrath  of  the  sea  without, 
with  the  shadow  of  Death  within  the  room,  with 
the  blackness  of  oblivion  creeping,  creeping  from 
chamber  to  chamber  in  the  darkened  house  of  a 
dulled,  subsiding  brain. 

Ere  dawn,  Alastair  slept.  Lora  lay  awake, 
trembling,  longing  for  the  day,  yet  praying  God 
to  withhold  it ;  sick  with  baffled  hope,  with  the 
ache  of  weariness,  with  the  sound  of  the  moan 
and  hollow  boom  of  the  sea.  More  deep  and 
terrible  in  her  ears  grew  that  midnight  Voice, 
reverberant  in  the  room  as  in  the  whorl  of  a 
shell :  a  dreadful  iterance  of  menace,  a  dirge 
that  confusedly  she  seemed  to  know  well,  a 
swelling  chant,  a  requiem. 


Pharais.  67 


IV. 


AN  hour  after  sunrise  there  was  not  a  cloud 
in  the  sky.  The  first  day  of  June  came 
clad  in  the  fulness  of  summer.  Sea  and  land 
seemed  as  though  they  had  been  immersed  in 
that  Fount  of  Life  which  wells  from  the  hollow 
of  the  Hand  which  upholdeth  Tir-na-h'Oighe, 
the  isle  of  eternal  youth. 

The  low  island-trees  had  not  suffered  as  had 
those  on  the  mainland :  yet  everywhere  were 
strewn  branches,  and,  on  the  uplands,  boughs 
wrenched  away,  and  often  hurled  far  from  the 
parent  tree. 

But  upon  all  the  isle  there  was  now  a  deep 
quiescence.  In  the  warm  languor,  even  the 
birds  sang  less  wildly  clear,  though  the  high, 
remote,  falling  lark-music  floated  spirally  earth 
ward,  poignantly  sweet.  An  indescribably  deli 
cate  shimmer  of  haze  lay  on  the  heights  and 
pastures,  and  where  the  corries  sloped  jaggedly 
seaward,  each  with  a  singing  burn  splashing  or 
wimpling  adown  its  heart.  From  the  uplands 
came  the  lowing  of  the  kine,  the  bleating  of  the 
ewes  and  lambs,  the  rapid  whirring  gurgle  of  the 
grouse  among  the  heather.  The  wailing  of  cur 
lews  rose  and  fell ;  the  sharp  cries  of  the  cliff- 
hawks  beat  against  Craig- Ruaidh.  High 


68  Pharais. 

overhead,  as  motionlessly  in  motion  as  the 
snow-white  disc  of  the  moon  lying  immeasurably 
more  remote  within  the  vast  blue  hollow  of 
the  sky,  an  eagle  poised  on  outspread  wings, 
and  then,  without  visible  effort  or  movement, 
drifted  slowly  out  of  sight  like  a  cloud  blown  by 
the  wind. 

Only  upon  the  sea  was  something  of  the 
tumult  of  the  past  night  still  a  reality. 

Around  the  isle,  and  in  the  wide  Sound  between 
it  and  the  mainland,  the  "white  sheep"  moved 
in  endless  procession,  no  longer  wildly  dispersed 
and  huddled  and  torn  by  the  wolves  of  the  tem 
pest.  Oceanward  the  sea-horses  swept  onward 
magnificently,  champing  and  whirling  white  foam 
about  their  green  flanks,  and  tossing  on  high 
their  manes  of  sunlit  rainbow  gold,  dazzling- 
white  and  multitudinous  far  as  sight  could 
reach. 

Clamour  of  gulls,  noise  of  waves,  lisp  and 
chime  and  flute-call  of  the  shallows  among  the 
rock- holes  and  upon  the  whispering  tongues  of 
the  sea- weed —  what  joy,  and  stir,  and  breath  of 
life! 

Hand  in  hand,  in  the  hot  noon,  Lora  and 
Alastair  went  idly  along  the  sheep-path  leading 
from  the  clachan  to  the  promontory  of  Ardgheal. 
The  smell  of  the  brine  from  the  sea  and  wrack- 
strewn  shore,  the  sun-wrought  fragrance  of  the 
grass  and  thyme,  of  bracken  and  gale,  of  birch 
and  hawthorn  and  trailing  briar,  of  the  whole 
beautiful,  living,  warm  body  of  the  earth  so  lay 
upon  the  tired  senses  with  a  healing  as  of  balm, 


Pharais.  69 

that  even  the  tears  in  Lora's  eyes  ceased  to 
gather,  leaving  there  only  a  softness  as  of  twilight- 
dew  in  violets. 

It  was  to  be  their  last  walk  in  the  sunshine 
of  that  day  —  their  last  participance  in  the 
sunshine  of  life. 

All  the  morning  had  been  spent  by  Alastair  in 
writing  and  brooding.  Once  again  he  had  talked 
over  with  Lora  that  projected  deed,  which  to 
them  seemed  the  one  right  and  fitting  end  to 
the  tragedy  of  circumstance.  She  had  promised 
that  even  if  the  darkness  came  down  upon  his 
mind  irretrievably  she  would  fulfil  her  troth  with 
him.  Great  love  casteth  out  fear ;  but  even  if 
this  had  not  been  so  with  her,  she  bore  in  mind 
the  menace  of  what  he  had  said  about  the 
child. 

She,  too,  had  spent  a  little  of  that  last  morn 
ing  in  writing,  though  her  letter  was  not  to  go 
across  the  sea  to  the  mainland,  but  to  be  left 
with  old  Ian  to  give  to  Mary  on  the  morrow. 

It  was  close  upon  noon  when  she  saw  that 
Alastair's  gloom  was  upon  him  again,  though 
he  was  now  as  quiet  as  a  child.  Taking  his 
hand,  she  led  him  forth,  heedful  to  avoid  the 
clachan,  and  vaguely  wishful  to  visit  once  more 
that  little  eastern  haven  of  Ardgheal  where, 
but  two  days  ago,  she  had  longingly  awaited 
Alastair's  return,  and  where,  months  before,  he 
had  first  won  her  love. 

He  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  the  sight  of 
the  sea  he  loved  so  well,  and  in  the  songs  of 
the  birds,  and  to  be  vaguely  displeased  because 


yo  Pharais. 

Ghaoth  would  not  leap  to  his  caress  as  usual,  or 
else  would  crouch  at  his  feet  with  startled  eyes 
and  low  whine. 

When  Lora  spoke,  he  answered  seldom ;  but 
when  he  did,  she  knew  that  he  understood. 
Once  or  twice  he  looked  at  her  strangely ;  and 
once,  with  a  thrill  of  awe  and  dread,  she  saw 
that  it  was  unrecognisingly. 

She  caught  the  fragment  of  an  Eolas,  a  spell, 
as  his  lips  moved ;  and  the  fear  was  upon  her 
because  of  the  mystery  behind  the  words  :  — 

'S  ?n  t-suil  a  chi, 

'S  e'en  cridhe  a  smuainicheas^ 

'S  fn  teanga  Uabhras: 

'S  mise'n  Triuir  qu  tilleadh  so  ortsa, 

Lora-mo-btan, 
An  ainm  an  Attar,  a  Mhic,  's  an 

Spioraidh  Naoimh  ! 

"  'T  is  the  eye  that  sees, 
'Tis  the  heart  that  thinks, 
'T  is  the  tongue  that  speaks  : 
I  am  the  Three  to  turn  this  off  to  you, 

Lora,  my  wife  : 
In  the  name  of  the  Father,  of  the  Son, 

and  of  the  Holy  Ghost." 

With  a  sob,  she  turned  and  put  her  arms 
about  him.  Never  had  he  seemed  so  fair  in 
her  sight  —  tall  and  comely  as  a  young  pine,  of 
a  beauty  beyond  that  of  any  man  she  had  ever 
seen.  No  wonder  that  her  father,  familiar  lover 
of  the  Ossianic  ballads,  had  been  wont,  remem 
bering  the  beauty  of  the  second  son  of  Usnoth, 
lord  of  Etha,  to  call  Alastair  Ailthos. 

"  Dear,  my  dear  one,  Ailthos,  Alastair  ! "  she 


Pharais.  71 

cried,  clinging  close.  "  Look  at  me  !  Speak  to 
me  !  Do  you  not  know  me?  " 

Slowly  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  her,  and  after 
a  brief  perplexity  the  shadow  went  out  of  them, 
and  he  smiled  gently. 

"  Let  us  go  home,  my  fawn,"  he  whispered. 
"  I  am  tired.  It  would  be  too  sad  to  go  down 
to  Ardgheal." 

He  had  already  caught  sight  of  the  smoke  of 
a  steamer  beyond  Dunmore  Point ;  and  fearing 
that  it  might  be  the  Clansman  —  for  he  thought 
the  hour  much  later  than  it  was  —  he  hoped  to 
spare  Lora  another  needless  pang.  Moreover, 
his  growing  dread  of  seeing  any  one  was  stronger 
than  ever  upon  him. 

So  they  turned  thus  soon  even  in  that  last 
sunshine,  and,  entering  the  cottage,  sat  before 
the  smouldering  peat-fire ;  he  brooding  darkly, 
Lora  dreaming  through  her  slow-welling  tears, 
and  both  .  .  .  waiting. 

Though,  at  dusk,  a  heavy  sea  still  ran,  it  was 
partly  due  to  the  surge  of  the  ground-swell  and 
to  the  turbulence  of  the  tide,  for  there  was 
but  little  wind  even  away  from  the  shelter  of  the 
isle,  and  what  there  was  came  mostly  in  short, 
sudden  puffs  and  wandering  breaths. 

In  the  quietude  of  the  gloaming,  it  was  as 
though  the  sea  called  all  round  Innisr6n  as  a 
beast  of  prey  stalks  about  a  high  sheepfold, 
growling,  breathing  heavily,  ravening. 

After  the  supper,  eaten  frugally  and  in  silence, 
Lora  and  Alastair  listened  once  again  to  the 


72  Pharais. 

peat-prayer  and  the  Blessing  of  Peace  of  Mrs. 
Maclean ;  then,  not  daring  to  say  any  word  to 
her  but  that  of  a  husky  farewell  for  the  night, 
and  fearful  even  of  meeting  the  glance  of  her 
quiet  eyes,  they  went  to  their  room,  there  to  sit 
silently  awhile  in  the  darkness,  hand  in  hand. 

No  one  saw  them  leave  the  cottage  an  hour 
later :  not  a  soul  heard  them  as  they  passed 
through  the  clachan. 

The  road  they  chose  was  that  sheep  path 
through  the  heather  which  led  to  Ardfeulan  by 
the  Glen  of  the  Dark  Water.  Each  knew  the 
way  well,  otherwise  their  faring  westward  would 
have  been  difficult,  for  the  sky  was  veiled  by  a 
thin  mist  and  the  moon  was  not  visible. 

They  walked  in  silence ;  sometimes  Lora  in 
advance,  but,  whenever  practicable,  together, 
and  hand  in  hand. 

At  last  they  reached  the  Glen  of  the  Dark 
Water,  and  perceived  through  the  gloaming  the 
sheiling  of  Ealasaid  MacAodh.  This  they  skirted, 
and  then  entered  a  sloping  hollow,  at  the  base 
of  which  was  audible  the  hoarse  murmuring  of 
the  sea.  Lora  knew  the  place  well.  A  week 
ago  she  had  been  there  with  Alastair,  and 
remembered  that  the  whole  slope  was  a  mass  of 
moonflowers,  tall,  white,  and  so  close-clustered 
that  the  green  stems  could  hardly  be  seen.  * 

The  wan  glimmer  of  them  was  perceptible 
now,  like  the  milky  way  on  a  night  when  a  faint 

*  A  tall,  cream-white  marguerite,  native  to  the  Outer 
Isles  and  the  Hebrides,  is  known  to  the  Islanders  as  the 
Moonflower. 


Pharais.  73 

frost-mist  prevails.  Around,  there  was  nothing 
else  visible.  Not  a  tree  grew  in  that  place  : 
not  a  crag  rose  out  of  the  sea  of  death-white 
blooms.  The  low-hanging  mist-cloud  veiled  all 
things.  It  was  as  though  the  grave  had  been 
passed,  and  this  was  the  gloom  of  the  Death- 
sleep  land  that  lies  beyond.  Only  there  is 
eternal  silence :  here,  the  dull  menace  of  the 
sea  made  a  ceaseless  murmur  about  the  obscure 
coasts. 

As  they  entered  the  valley  of  moonflowers, 
dimly  seeing  their  way  a  few  yards  beyond 
them,  and  hearkening  to  the  inwash  and  resur 
gence  of  the  tide  moving  along  the  extreme 
frontiers  of  the  land,  a  sense  of  unspeakable 
dread  came  over  Alastair  and  Lora. 

They  stood  still,  hardly  daring  to  breathe. 
Both  vaguely  remembered  something :  they 
knew  not  what,  save  that  the  tragic  memory 
was  linked  with  reminiscence  of  a  valley  of 
moonflowers  seen  in  a  dark  twilight.  Was  it 
all  a  dream,  coincident  in  their  minds?  Or 
had  life  once  before,  in  some  unremembered 
state,  wrought  tragic  issues  for  them  by  a  valley 
of  white  flowers  seen  in  the  darkness,  with  a 
deeper  darkness  around,  a  veiled  sky  above,  and 
the  hoarse,  confused  prophesying  of  the  sea 
beyond  ? 

As  they  stood,  the  moon  —  about  an  hour 
risen  —  glimmered  through  the  veil  of  cloud. 
As  with  a  hand,  the  rift  was  slowly  made ;  but 
though  the  light  was  now  clearly  visible,  it  still 
gleamed  through  filmy  shrouds  of  vapour. 


74  Pharais. 

There  was  no  shape,  no  central  luminous  spot 
even :  only  a  diffused  sheen  which  spread  for  a 
great  span  northward  and  southward,  though  it 
illumed  nothing  beneath  save  the  long  sloping 
hollow  filled  with  moonflowers.  The  blooms 
rose  almost  to  the  knees  of  the  two  silent  and 
trembling  figures.  For  some  inscrutable  reason, 
the  advance  of  light  had  not  brought  any  com 
fort  to  either :  rather,  their  vague  terror  in 
creased  almost  unendurably. 

The  sea  called  below.  Lora  shuddered,  and 
drew  back  a  step  or  two. 

A  long,  wavering,  greenish  light  appeared 
high  above  the  south-west.  As  the  sheet-light 
ning  fled  shudderingly  northward,  it  lapsed  into 
ashen  tremors  before  it  was  swallowed  up  of  the 
darkness,  as  a  wounded  sea-bird  in  the  deep. 

In  that  brief  gleam,  Alastair  turned  and 
looked  into  Lora's  eyes. 

She  moved  to  his  side  again,  and  once  more 
took  his  hand.  Then,  slowly,  and  still  without 
word  one  to  the  other,  they  moved  downward 
through  the  hollow. 

There  was  not  a  sound  about  them  save  the 
susurrus  of  their  feet  going  through  the  moon- 
flowers.  From  the  glen  alone  came  any  break 
in  the  inland  stillness,  the  noise  of  water 
running  swiftly  from  ledge  to  ledge.  In  the 
darkness  where  the  sea  was,  there  broke  the 
fluctuating  moan  and  boom  of  ocean.  From 
far  across  the  wave  came  a  thin,  forlorn  sound 
that  was  the  crying  of  the  wind. 

Minute  by  minute,  as  they  waded  through 


Pharais.  75 

that  death-white  wilderness,  the  moon  wove  the 
cloud- shroud  into  thinner  veils,  till  at  last,  as 
the  two  figures  emerged  upon  the  shore  by  the 
side  of  a  precipitous  scaur,  they  were  of  a  filmy 
gossamer  that  no  longer  obscured  the  golden- 
yellow  globe  that  wheeled  solemnly  through  the 
appalling  upper  solitudes  of  the  night. 

The  tide,  at  the  last  reach  of  the  ebb  for 
nearly  an  hour  past,  was  now  on  the  flood : 
though  the  first  indeterminate  babble  of  return 
ing  waters  was  scarce  different  from  the  lapsing 
ebb- music  in  aught  save  a  gurgling  swiftly- 
repetitive  undertone. 

The  scaur  by  whose  side  they  stood  was 
hollow,  and  was  known  as  the  Cave  of  the  Sea- 
Woman.  It  could  be  reached  dry-shod,  or 
nearly  so,  only  at  low-water,  and  even  then  only 
during  calm,  or  when  the  wind  did  not  blow 
from  the  south  or  west.  For  years  beyond 
record  it  had  been  almost  unvisited,  for  the 
cavern  was  a  place  of  deadly  peril  except  just 
before  and  after  the  extreme  ebb.  But  after 
the  death  of  two  of  his  sons  —  one  in  the  effort 
to  swim  outward  against  the  inrush  of  the  tide ; 
the  other  by  falling,  or  being  swept  backward  to 
the  deep  chasm  that  lay  at  the  far  end  of  the 
cave  —  old  Macrae,  of  Ardfeulan  Farm  near  by, 
had  caused  rude  steps  to  be  cut  in  the  funnel- 
like  hollow  rising  sheer  up  from  the  sloping 
ledge  that  lipped  the  chasm  and  reached  the 
summit  of  the  scaur. 

The  smell  of  the  brine  from  the  dripping 
boulders  smote  shrewdly  upon  Alastair  and 


76  Pharais. 

Lora  as  they  stood  at  the  weedy  mouth  of  the 
cavern.  Then  for  the  first  time  that  night  they 
turned  their  backs  upon  the  sea,  and  moved 
slowly  across  the  long,  flat  slabs  of  rock. 

It  was  not  dark  at  the  entrance  to  the  Cavern 
of  the  Sea- Woman,  for  the  moonlight  moved 
within  it  as  the  hand  of  a  blind  man  groping 
blankly  in  an  unfamiliar  place.  The  arch  of 
the  rock  was  clear,  and  even  the  frondage  of 
fern  and  sea-plants  suspended  from  its  lower 
curve ;  also,  beneath,  a  mass  of  mossed  crag, 
just  beyond  the  highest  reach  of  the  tides. 
Among  this  dark  crag-vegetation  grew  strange 
plants ;  but  none  stranger  or  so  rare  as  the  sea- 
grape,  or  mermaid's-fruit  of  the  islanders.  No 
one  on  Innisron  knew  its  proper  designation, 
and  it  had  become  known  at  all  as  the  sea- 
grape  only  because  some  student  of  rare  things 
discovered  and  wrote  about  it  under  that  name, 
as  perhaps  the  culminating  treasure-trove  of  the 
botanist  in  the  Scottish  West.  It  is  a  plant 
which  clings  as  a  tendril,  choosing  only  the 
summit  of  high  rocks  or  boulders  in  some  sun 
less  place  where  it  can  breathe  the  ooze  from 
dead  or  dying  sea-weed,  and  can  feel  the  salt  air 
reach  it  with  a  chilly  touch.  It  lies  low,  with 
its  thin,  moist,  ash-grey  stems ;  its  round,  pale- 
green,  transparent  leaves  faintly  spotted  with 
livid  blotches ;  and  its  infrequent  clusters  of 
small,  juicy  berries  of  a  hue  of  dusky  yellow. 

The  islefolk  regard  it  with  awe.  Though  the 
fruit  is  poisonous,  and  a  deadly  draught  can  be 
distilled  from  the  leaves,  a  few  berries  would 


Pharais.  77 

not  suffice  to  kill.  To  eat  sparingly  of  the  sea- 
grape  is  not  to  invite  deatn  necessarily,  but  to 
bring  about  a  stupor  so  deep  that  for  an  hour 
or  more  no  familiar  sound  can  reach  the  ear, 
no  ordinary  shock  vibrate  along  the  nerves,  no 
common  pain  affect  the  body.  If  the  eater  of 
the  mermaid's-fruit  be  left  undisturbed,  he  will 
not  stir  for  twelve  or  ever;  fifteen  hours,  though 
the  first  death-like  trance  does  not  prevail 
beyond  an  hour,  or  at  most  two :  while,  if 
forcibly  aroused,  he  is  so  weak  in  body  and  so 
dazed  in  mind  that  he  cannot  long  be  kept 
awake  without  peril  to  the  brain,  and  indeed  to 
life  itself. 

It  was  because  of  this  fruit  of  oblivion  that 
Alastair  and  Lora  had  sought  the  Cave  of  the 
Sea-Woman. 

They  had  feared  not  so  much  their  own 
instinctive  evasion  of  death  as  that,  in  the  final 
struggle,  they  might  not  go  down  into  the 
shadow  together. 

The  idea  trut  the  Silence  should  come  upon 
them  unawares  —  that,  arms  about  each  other 
in  a  last  embrace,  the  wave  should  encroach 
upon  their  deep  unheeding  slumber  —  had  given 
them  a  strange  elation.  The  thought  was  Ala- 
stair's.  Though  he  was  not  a  native  of  Innisron, 
he  had  often  visited  it  from  Dunvrechan  even 
before  he  had  come  to  love  Lora,  and  was 
familiar  with  each  of  the  treacherous  caves  and 
all  the  desolate,  boulder- strewn,  uninhabited 
south-western  side  of  the  island,  as  well  as  with 
everything  in  animate  or  inanimate  nature  which 


78  Pharais. 

was  to  be  found  therein.  Not  only  had  he  often 
heard  of  the  sea-grape  which  grew  almost  in 
accessibly  in  some  of  the  caverns  on  the  western 
side,  but  he  knew  where  in  the  Cave  of  the  Sea- 
Woman  it  was  to  be  obtained  with  little  difficulty. 

Letting  Lora's  hand  drop  gently  to  her  side, 
he  climbed  the  rough,  broken  ledges  to  the 
right,  and  swiftly  returned  holding  in  his  hand 
a  cluster  of  limp  leaves  from  which  hung  snakily 
several  stems  of  the  dusky-yellow  fruit. 

Lora  looked  at  the  berries  curiously,  and  yet 
with  a  strange  indifference.  With  that  awful 
menacing  sound  of  the  sea  beyond,  with  that 
more  awful  murmur  of  dread  in  her  heart,  with 
that  rising  tide  of  death  all  about  them,  it  mat 
tered  little  to  her  that  Alastair  laid  such  stress 
on  those  small,  poisonous  things,  those  petty 
messengers  of  a  mere  oblivion  of  the  senses. 

Just  beyond  where  they  stood,  and  at  the 
beginning  of  those  long,  flat,  inward  sloping 
ledges  which  formed  the  floor  of  the  cavern  till 
the  abrupt  ending  over  the  dark  chasm  at  the 
extreme  end,  was  a  bed  of  soft  white  sand, 
shelving  from  one  of  the  ledges  past  and  under 
neath  another,  and  then  among  rocks  covered 
with  bladder-wrack  and  adder's-tongues  and 
other  sea-weed,  with  tangled  masses  of  the 
long,  trailing  dead-man's-hair. 

Still  without  speech,  here  Alastair  and  Lora 
lay  down,  side  by  side. 

There  is  an  ebb  in  the  tide  of  human  hope 
that  must  reach  a  limit.  When  this  limit  is 
attained  there  is  too  great  weariness  for  any 


Pharais.  79 

further  revolt,  for  any  protest,  for  anything  but 
dull  acquiescence. 

Slowly  Alastair  stripped  a  few  of  the  dusky 
berries  from  the  plant  and  held  them  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand  to  Lora. 

Taking  them,  she  leaned  forward,  looking 
intently  upon  his  face,  but  failing  to  see  into 
his  eyes,  because  of  a  deeper  shadow  therein 
than  that  which  environed  them. 

"Alastair"  she  whispered. 

He  made  no  answer ;  but  wearily  raised  his 
hand  to  his  mouth,  and  with  his  tongue  crushed 
against  his  palate  the  acrid  juice  of  the  sea- 
grapes. 

"  O  Alastair  !  speak  to  me  !  speak  to  me  !  " 

He  turned  slowly.  Then  suddenly  he  put 
out  his  arms,  and  gathered  her  to  his  breast. 

"  My  beautiful  gloom  —  Lora  —  my  Rest  — 
my  Joy  —  O  you  who  are  my  Pharais  —  all  the 
Pharais  I  care  for  now  or  dream  of — if  there 
be  indeed  a  pitiful  God,  He  will  have  mercy 
upon  us.  If  we  do  wrong,  we  sin  believing 
that  we  are  doing  the  right,  the  sole  right 
thing.  But  sweet  it  is  —  O  Lora,  sweet  and 
dear  at  the  last,  after  all  our  dark  bewildered 
pain,  to  be  here  and  know  that  all  is  over  now, 
and  that  we  two  go  into  the  Silence  together : 
and  if  there  be  any  waking,  that  together  we 
shall  wake.  Mo  ghraidh,  mo  muirnean,  my 
dear  one,  what  peace  there  is  for  you  and  me 
that  I  die  thus :  free  from  that  crushing, 
crushing  pain  and  darkness  that  has  filled  my 
brain." 


8o  Pharais. 

"  Alastair  !  O  my  dear  love  —  dearest  — 
shall  we  —  shall  we  meet  again  after  this 
dreadful  night?  Shall  there  be  any  day  for 
us  ?  I  cannot  die  —  oh,  I  cannot  die  in  this 
awful  darkness  .  .  .  thus  .  .  .  We  are  both  so 
young  .  .  .  and  I  ..." 

She  ceased  abruptly.    ' 

A  low  splashing  sound,  with  long-die,  n 
suffocating  surge  and  susurrus,  told  that  the  sea 
had  begun  to  creep  forward  with  stealthy 
swiftness. 

It  was  not  the  menace  of  the  tide,  however, 
that  froze  the  words  upon  her  lips. 

Alastair  had  begun  to  croon,  in  a  drowsy,  yet 
strained,  uncertain  voice,  a  snatch  of  fisher-lore. 

"Alastair!  Alastair!  Alastair!" 

He  gave  a  low  laugh,  as  he  turned  on  his 
side,  and  with  wandering  fingers  played  idly 
with  the  sand. 

"  Alastair  !  ...  my  husband  !  .  .  .  Beloved 
.  .  .  Alastair !  .  .  .  Oh,  say  farewell  to  me  at 
the  least.  .  .  .  Do  not  turn  from  me  !  " 

"  It  called  —  called  —  called  :  and  she  cried 
to  me,  Come,  my  Beloved :  and  then  I  knew 
Lora  was  dead.  Why  do  you  laugh  at  me? 
She  is  dead,  I  tell  you :  dead,  dead,  dead  / 
She,  my  beautiful  Lora  —  my  dream  —  my 
joy  —  she  who  to  me  was  Pharais  itself :  she  is 
dead  I" 

In  the  grip  of  supreme  woe,  a  woman  has  a 
heroism  of  abnegation  beyond  all  words  to 
tell  of  it. 

Her  grief  rose  within   Lora  as  a  phantom. 


Pharais.  8 1 

and  chilled  her  to  the  very  heart  and  to  the 
very  brain.  But  with  a  great  effort  she  stirred, 
leaned  over  and  pluckt  some  of  the  fatal  fruit, 
and  swallowed  it :  for  she  had  crushed  in  her 
hand  the  berries  he  had  given  her. 

Then,  having  risen,  with  deft  hands  she 
pulled  towards  her  some  long  strings  of  dead- 
man's-hair  and  rope-weed;  and,  with  those 
which  were  firmly  affixed  to  rocks  or  heavy 
stones,  she  wove  a  girdle  about  the  waist  of 
Alastair,  and  so  round  her  own. 

She  could  scarce  see  to  finish  her  task,  for 
the  moon  had  passed  upward  into  the  denser 
cloud,  and  the  faintly  luminous  veils  of  vapour 
beneath  it  were  now  scarce  distinguishable  from 
the  obscurity  all  around. 

The  insistent  wash  of  the  tide  was  coming 
steadily  nearer.  She  could  feel  the  cold  breath 
of  its  moving  lip. 

Absolute  darkness  prevailed ;  while,  with 
shaking  hands,  having  unloosed  her  long,  black 
hair,  she  tied  it  firmly  in  two  places  with  the 
curly  tangle  of  him  whom  she  loved  so  passing 
well  in  death  as  in  life. 

Not  a  gleam  fell  from  the  veiled  moon.  Not 
a  thing  was  visible  save  a  faint  phosphorescent 
line  that  moved  slowly  inward.  Lora  could 
not  see  Alastair's  face,  not  even  his  body,  not 
even  the  two  shaking  hands  she  held  over  him 
while  she  prayed  inaudibly,  and  with  a  suffocat 
ing,  bewildering  pain  at  her  heart,  at  her  lungs, 
in  her  head. 

No  sound  came  from  the  isle.  The  noise  of 
6 


82  Pharais. 

the  falling  stream  in  the  glen  was  merged  in  the 
confused  clamour  of  the  tide-race.  Shoreward, 
there  was  that  awful  tidal  whisper.  Seaward, 
the  march  of  wave  after  wave,  of  billow  after 
billow,  in  vast  processional  array;  squadron 
after  squadron,  battalion  after  battalion,  of  the 
innumerable  army  of  the  deep :  and  among 
them  all,  over  them  all,  beneath  them  all,  a 
Voice,  loud,  reverberant,  menacing,  awful  as 
brooding  thunder,  terrible  as  the  quaking  of 
the  dry  land  when  the  hills  o'ertopple  the  cities 
of  the  plain  :  a  Voice  as  of  the  majesty  of  Death, 
swelling  through  the  night  with  all  the  eternal 
pain,  the  forlorn  travail,  the  incommunicable 
ache  of  all  the  weary,  weary  World. 

Then,  ere  all  remembrance  died  for  her,  Lora 
knew  that  Alastair  slept  and  was  at  peace. 

She  stole  her  arm  round  his  neck  and  held 
him  close,  but  was  too  weak  now  to  lean  over 
and  kiss  those  white  lips,  parted  as  a  child's  in 
dreamless  slumber. 

It  was  her  last  pain :  the  last  unavailing 
bitterness  of  woman's  woe. 

Thereafter  she  lay  still,  vaguely  hearkening 
the  tide  run  up  the  deep  channel  beyond  the 
little  isle  of  sand,  already  damp  with  the  under- 
ooze. 

She  listened  to  the  slipping  of  the  water  along 
the  ledges.  A  wave  came  out  of  the  darkness 
and  stalked  through  the  gloom  as  a  wild  beast 
to  its  lair.  Ledge  over  ledge  she  heard  it 
swiftly  move  :  then  suddenly  there  was  a  blank 
.  a  hoarse  muffled  noise  .  .  the  hollow 


Pharais.  83 

reverberation  of  the  billow  as  it  fell  heavily 
into  the  black  unfathomed  gulf  wherein  at  the 
flood  was  swept  all  that  drifted  into  the  cave. 

A  windy  sigh  arose  in  the  cavern.  The  tide 
moved  upward,  feeling  along  the  walls  with 
stealthy,  groping  hands.  A  faint  phosphores 
cence  appeared  momently,  now  here,  now 
there. 

The  second  channel,  to  the  left,  suddenly 
brimmed.  The  water  spilled  over  upon  the 
sandy  tract  beyond.  Then  a  long  rolling  wave 
raced  inward,  leapt  along  one  of  its  ledges, 
poised  a  moment,  and,  breaking  into  a  seething 
foam  in  its  fall,  tore  this  way  and  that  the  weedy 
bonds  which  bound  the  sleepers. 

Beyond,  in  the  darkness,  the  loud  moan, 
the  deep,  monotonous  boom  of  the  sea  filled 
the  whole  vast  void  of  the  night. 


84  Pharais. 


V. 

THE  loud  and  terrifying  violence  of  the  sea 
throughout  that  day ;  the  oppressive  gloom 
of  that  night ;  the  weight  of  undischarged  elec 
tricity  which  everywhere  brooded ;  all  made 
sleep  impossible  for  Ealasaid  MacAodh. 

So  ill  was  she  when  evening  set  in,  that  she 
had  moved  her  things  from  the  bed  in  the 
second  of  the  two  rooms  of  which  the  sheiling 
consisted,  so  as  to  sleep  in  the  box-bed  in  the 
larger,  within  sight  and  feel  of  the  fire-glow. 

She  had  not  slept  there  since  her  husband 
died.  Perhaps  this  was  because  that,  even 
after  the  lapse  of  years,  she  could  not  endure 
the  solitudes  of  memory.  They  had  been 
lovers  in  their  youth,  she  and  her  Hebridean  : 
they  had  been  lovers  during  their  brief  married 
life,  ere  he,  after  the  too  frequent  wont  of  the 
islesmen,  found  death  in  the  wave  wherein  he 
sought  the  means  of  life  :  and  when  his  drifted 
body  had  been  recovered,  and  laid  in  the  island 
soil,  she  had  remained  his  lover  still.  Doubt 
less,  she  thought  of  him  even  yet  with  his  yellow 
hair  and  laughing  eyes ;  perhaps  of  herself,  too, 
as  lithe  of  limb  and  with  soft,  fair  skin  as  un- 
wrinkled  and  hair  as  brown  and  supple  as  when 
he  had  first  caused  the  trouble  of  a  new  and 


Pharais.  85 

strange  tide  in  the  calm  waters  of  her  girl's 
heart. 

To  sleep  in  the  bed  where  she  had  lain  by  his 
side,  where  a  child  had  been  born  to  her  and 
had  died  just  as  with  glad  pain  she  had  recog 
nised  in  the  little  one  the  eyes  of  its  father, 
may  have  seemed  to  her  a  cross  of  suffering 
which  she  was  unable  to  take  up  and  bear. 

Or,  it  may  be,  there  lurked  darkly  in  her 
mind  the  ancient  secret  Celtic  dread  of  sleeping 
in  the  bed  where  any  of  one's  own  blood-kin 
has  died :  the  dread  of  the  whisper  that  is  on 
the  pillow  in  the  dark  hours,  of  the  hand  that 
gropes  along  the  coverlet,  of  the  chill  breath 
that  comes  without  cause  and  stirs  the  hair  as 
it  falls  suddenly  upon  the  cheek  of  the  awakened 
sleeper. 

On  this  night,  however,  she  dreaded  not 
only  her  own  weakness,  but  the  dark.  Vaguely, 
she  wondered  how  she  had  for  so  long  a  time 
slept  away  from  the  comforting  light  and 
warmth  of  her  peat-fire. 

She  was  so  old,  so  weary,  she  thought  pitifully. 
Would  Duncan  be  sure  to  know  her  again? 
Why  was  she  kept  so  long  there,  waiting  for  the 
summons  that  never  came  ?  Had  God  forgotten 
her?  No  kin  had  she:  not  one  to  claim  her 
body  for  the  place  of  sleep  when  her  dark  hour 
came.  Useless  were  her  days  to  all :  to  herself, 
each  day  a  rising  sorrow ;  each  night  a  setting 
grief. 

Yet  that  infinite  patience  of  the  poor  was 
hers,  that  poignant  pathos  of  womanhood  in 


86  Pharais. 

childless  and  husbandless  old  age,  which  to  the 
very  end  endures  —  till  the  last  thread  has  been 
used  in  the  weaving  of  the  Crown  of  Sorrow. 

Beautiful  this  austere  Diadem  worn  by  aged 
and  lonely  women  :  sweet-eyed  bearers  of  crowns 
among  the  myriad  procession  of  the  weary  poor 
of  all  the  world,  all  going  gloriously  apparelled 
and  wreathed  with  green  garlands  which  fade 
not  in  the  sight  of  Him  who  leadeth  His  feeble 
folk  to  kingship  and  honour. 

For  a  brief  while  she  lay  brooding,  with  dull 
old  eyes  fixt  upon  the  red  heart  of  the  peats. 
Then  the  gaze  withdrew  slowly,  and  the  lids 
closed ;  as  though  a  bird,  flying  softly  through 
the  twilight,  had  passed  beneath  the  low-hung 
leaves  over  its  nest. 

She  could  not  have  been  long  asleep,  for 
the  glow  was  still  ruddy  upon  the  floor,  when 
she  was  startled  by  a  sudden  barking  and  whin 
ing.  She  sat  up,  listening  intently.  She  could 
hear  no  step,  no  voice.  The  whining  terrified 
her.  If  the  noise  were  that  of  a  dog  at  all,  and 
not  of  Luath  or  some  other  phantom  hound, 
whose  dog  was  it,  and  why  its  sudden  appear 
ance  at  her  door  at  that  hour  of  night,  —  its 
eager,  unceasing  clamour? 

But  when,  with  louder  and  louder  barks  and 
an  impatient  scraping,  the  unwelcome  visitor 
showed  he  was  not  to  be  denied,  she  rose,  put 
on  her  things,  and  then,  having  wrapt  a  shawl 
about  her  head  and  lit  a  lantern  which  she 
lifted  from  a  hook,  opened  the  door. 

For  a  moment,  she  thought  that  nothing  was 


Pharais.  87 

there.  Then  her  ears  caught  the  sound  of 
panting  breath,  and  something  wet  and  warm 
touched  her  suspended  left  hand. 

With  timid,  yet  caressing  voice,  she  lured  the 
dog  across  the  threshold.  The  moment  she 
could  see  clearly,  she  recognised  him  as  Ghaoth, 
the  white- breasted,  tawny-haired,  amber-eyed 
collie  that  belonged  to  Alastair  Macleod. 

The  dog  would  not  bide.  His  whining  never 
ceased,  save  when  it  was  interrupted  by  loud, 
eager  barks.  To  and  fro  he  ran,  and  at  last 
sprang  out  into  the  night  again,  only  to  return 
a  few  moments  later  in  a  state  of  excitement 
bordering  on  frenzy. 

"  Some  evil  must  have  happened  to  Alastair 
MacLeod,"  Ealasaid  muttered,  as  after  a  brief 
hesitation  she  took  the  lantern  and  followed 
Ghaoth. 

To  her  dismay,  the  dog  tried  to  lead  her 
towards  the  hollow  of  the  moonflowers.  Could 
Alastair  possibly  be  there,  or  on  the  shore 
beyond?  Why,  if  he  were  down  there,  lying 
helpless,  the  tide  would  be  upon  him  shortly, 
and  then  his  doom  would  be  certain.  Again, 
of  what  avail  was  she,  so  old  and  frail,  and 
now  with  some  new  weakness  upon  her?  She 
feared  she  had  not  the  strength  to  move  down 
ward  in  the  dark  through  that  dense  jungle 
of  white  blooms :  still  less  to  climb  homeward 
again.  But  while  she  pondered,  she  saw  that 
Ghaoth  leapt  no  more  in  the  direction  of  the 
valley,  but  along  the  grassy  ridge  which  led  to 
the  summit  of  Craig-Geal,  so  perilous  by  night 


88  Pharais. 

because  of  the  sloping,  precipitous  hole  which 
gave  entrance  to  the  funnel-like  passage  issuing 
from  the  Cave  of  the  Sea-Woman. 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  as  it  flashed  upon  her  that 
Alastair  had  fallen,  or  been  hemmed-in  in  the 
cavern  by  the  tide,  "  God  help  him  if  he  is 
there  !  " 

With  panting  breath  she  hurried  along  the 
ridge,  heedless  now  of  Ghaoth,  who  had  suddenly 
darted  off  to  the  left  and  disappeared  among 
the  moonflowers.  She  had  not  gone  far,  how 
ever,  before  she  stopped.  What  use  to  hurry 
onward,  if  all  she  could  do  was  to  shout  down 
into  the  darkness  —  aery  that  would  likely  never 
be  heard,  and  if  heard  would  be  of  no  avail  to 
the  hearer? 

No  sooner  did  she  realise  the  uselessness  of 
her  errand  than  she  turned,  and,  with  shaking 
limbs  and  labouring  breath,  made  her  way  along 
a  sheep-path  which  led  to  the  -opposite  brae  of 
Craig- Ruaidh,  where  Angus  Macrae  and  his  son 
Ranald  lived. 

So  exhausted  was  the  old  woman  by  the  time 
she  had  reached  the  farm  and  aroused  the  in 
mates,  that  two  or  three  minutes  passed  before 
she  could  explain. 

Ranald  Macrae  saw  at  once  that  one  of  two 
things  had  happened  :  either  that  Alastair  had 
wandered  to  the  cave  in  his  madness,  and  there, 
ignorant  or  oblivious  of  the  steps  cut  in  the 
hollow  columnar  passage  at  the  far  end,  been 
cut  off  by  the  sea ;  or  else  that  he  had  wittingly 
made  his  way  there,  with  intent  to  drown  him- 


Pharais.  89 

self  in  the  Kelpie's  Pool  —  an  abyss  that  never 
gave  back  what  it  swallowed. 

It  was  during  this  hurried  explanation  to  his 
father  that  Ealasaid  learned  for  the  first  time  the 
truth  of  what  had  reached  her  as  a  vague  rumour 
in  the  mouth  of  a  herd-boy.  Eager  as  she  was 
to  be  of  help,  she  was  now  too  weak  to  accom 
pany  the  men,  even  if  it  were  possible  for  her  to 
keep  pace  with  them,  which  it  was  not,  as  they 
had  started  off  at  a  run. 

She  knew  that  old  Macrae's  advice  was  right : 
that  she  could  best  help  by  going  home  at  once, 
and  making  preparation  to  receive  Alastair  if  he 
were  still  alive.  There  was  no  room  for  him  at 
the  farm,  where  Ranald's  wife  had  given  birth 
to  a  child  two  days  before.  So  with  little  Pol, 
the  herd-boy,  she  set  out  once  more,  leaning 
often  upon  the  lad's  shoulder ;  and  wondering 
if,  after  all,  God  were  going  to  let  her  be  of  some 
service  before  he  led  her  through  the  blind  way 
till  her  hand  should  slip  into  that  of  her 
husband.  As  she  went,  she  muttered  to  herself 
part  of  a  rune  now  almost  lost  among  the  people, 
an  ancient  siam  —  that  part  of  the  Tuaitheal, 
beginning  "  Clogaid  na  salainte  mu  d'  cheann  :  " 

The  helmet  of  Salvation  about  your  head, 
The  ring  of  the  Covenant  about  your  neck, 
The  priest's  breastplate  about  your  breast ; 
If  it  be  rout  on  the  rear, 
The  shoes  of  the  Virgin  to  take  you  swiftly  away. 

Charm  of  the  Three  in  one  on  you 

From  crown  of  head  to  sole  of  foot, 

And  the  charm  of  the  pater  of  the  seven  paters 


90  Pharais. 

A-going  anti-sunwise  and  sunwise,  sunwise  and  anti-sun- 
wise, 

To  protect  you  from  behind, 
From  wound  and  from  slaying, 
Till  the  hour  and  time  of  your  death. 

Before  they  left  the  farmstead,  the  Macraes 
had  provided  themselves  with  lanterns,  a  long 
rope,  and  a  pine  torch  dipped  in  tar. 

As  they  neared  the  summit  of  Craig-Geal,  they 
could  hear  the  frenzied  barking  of  Ghaoth  in  the 
darkness  down  by  the  sea  —  loud  when  caught 
on  an  eddy  of  wind  and  borne  upward,  scarce 
audible  when  overborne  by  the  moan  and  boom 
and  ever  recurrent  breaking  surge  of  the 
advancing  tide. 

At  the  dark  circular  exit  of  the  cavern,  they 
waved  lanterns  and  shouted  themselves  hoarse : 
but  without  seeing  aught,  or  winning  response. 

Angus  Macrae  silently  drew  back,  rose,  and  lit 
the  pine-torch.  Flaring  abruptly  into  the  dark 
before  a  gust  of  wind,  it  was  like  a  blood-red 
wound  in  the  flank  of  some  vast  black  creature 
of  night. 

Having  fastened  the  torch  to  the  rope,  he 
swung  it  far  down  the  narrow  funnel,  up  which 
came  the  smell  of  wrack  and  sea-damp  and  an 
obscure,  muffled  sound. 

Still  there  was  nothing  visible.  No  shout 
followed  the  sudden  glare. 

The  old  man  stood  silent,  craning  forward 
with  brooding  eyes  ;  for  now  he  was  thinking  of 
the  two  sons  he  had  lost.  With  a  shudder,  he 
moved  slowly  back  and  turned  to  Ranald. 


Pharais.  91 

"  Will  you  go  down  ?  " 

"  Ay,  father,  that  I  will :  if  you  will  breathe 
the  holy  word  before  me  and  after  me.  The 
kelpie  ...  the  Sea- Woman  .  .  .  won't  catch 
me,  for  I  am  sure  of  hand  and  foot." 

"  So  your  brother  Sheumais  thought." 

Ranald  hesitated,  looked  at  the  cave-mouth, 
then  at  his  father. 

"  Is  it  true  Sheumais  died  in  that  way  ?  " 

"  It  is  true.  The  tide  hemmed  him  in,  and 
a  heavy  sea  foamed  at  the  mouth  of  the  cavern. 
There  was  no  chance  but  to  gain  some  ledge 
high  above  the  Sea- Woman's  Pool.  He  did 
gain  a  hold  on  a  ledge,  for  long  afterwards  we 
found  his  knife  on  it.  Then  the  accursed  kelpie 
rose  out  of  her  lair  and  took  him  by  the  legs, 
and  pulled  him  down,  and  tore  him,  and  broke 
the  bones  of  him,  —  my  son,  my  son,  my 
beautiful  Sheumais  ! " 

As  the  old  man  spoke,  his  voice  had  grown 
louder,  his  tone  more  intense  ;  and  at  the  last  the 
memory  of  his  loss  so  wrought  upon  him  that, 
with  a  sudden  cry,  he  dashed  forward  and 
whirled  one  of  the  lanterns  into  the  dark,  echoing 
chasm. 

"  Let  me  go,  let  me  go,"  he  cried,  as  his  son 
tried  to  withhold  him.  "  If  she  must  have  one 
of  us  again,  let  it  be  me  !  Let  go,  boy  !  You 
have  your  wife  and  child :  and  I  am  old,  and 
have  lost  Sheumais  and  Andras  and  the  mother 
who  bore  them  ! " 

Without  a  word,  Ranald  desisted.  The  old 
man  went  on  his  knees,  crawled  forward,  and 


92  Pharais. 

pulled  up  the  flaming  torch.  Then,  having 
fastened  the  rope  round  his  waist  and  secured 
a  lantern  to  his  belt,  he  slipt  over  the  edge  and 
began  the  descent,  cautiously  feeling  his  way 
with  his  feet  as  he  went. 

As  he  reached  further  and  further  into  the 
darkness,  he  wondered  why  he  heard  no  more 
the  barking  of  Ghaoth.  A  grim  thought  came 
into  his  mind :  the  dog  had  been  caught  by  the 
Sea- Woman,  and  was  even  now  drifting  round 
and  round  in  her  pool,  strangled,  with  glazed, 
protruding  eyes. 

At  last,  both  sight  and  sound  told  him  that  he 
was  nearly  over  the  abyss  —  sight  and  sound,  and 
his  careful  counting  of  the  steps  in  his  descent. 

The  tidal  wash,  the  heavy  lapse  and  then 
heavier  resurge,  with  the  rush  and  cataract-roar 
of  the  seas  as  they  fell  far  down  into  the  chasm, 
assailed  his  ears  continuously.  Peering  down, 
he  could  see  the  foam  upon  the  flood,  as  it 
swept  ravening  round  the  cave  and  then  fell 
headlong  into  the  abyss,  above  which  was  a 
misty  pulsating  whiteness,  the  send  and  spray 
of  tons  of  whirled  water. 

There  was  almost  no  need  to  descend  further, 
he  thought.  The  strongest  swimmer,  if  caught 
in  that  inrush,  would  be  swept  irresistibly  into 
the  horrible  cauldron  where  the  Sea-Woman 
brewed  her  spells  of  storm  and  disaster. 

There  was  but  one  chance  for  Alastair;  if, 
in  truth,  he  were  in  the  cave  at  all  and  still 
alive.  A  little  way  below  where  the  isleman 
stood,  there  were  three  or  four  broad  ledges  of 


Pharais.  93 

which  even  the  lowest  would  still  be  unswept 
by  the  sea.  He  dreaded  to  descend;  for  it 
was  on  the  first  of  those  ledges  that  his  son, 
Sheumais,  had  been  dragged,  screaming,  into 
the  abyss.  With  a  muttered  prayer,  however, 
—  a  prayer  that  was  half  an  incantation,  —  he 
once  more  slowly  crawled  downward. 

When  he  came  -to  the  third  ledge,  he  stopped, 
crouched,  and  peered  downward  and  forward. 

For  a  moment  his  brain  swung. 

What  was  it  that  he  saw  ?  What  fantasy  was 
this?  what  horrible  caprice  of  his  eyes?  Had 
Ghaoth  slain  the  kelpie,  and  was  he  now  per 
ishing  there  with  his  teeth  fixt  in  the  neck  of 
the  Sea-Woman? 

For  Ghaoth,  and  no  other,  was  the  dog  that 
crouched  on  the  lowest  ledge ;  and  a  woman 
it  was  who  lay  beside  him,  upheld  at  the  neck 
by  his  strong  teeth. 

He  saw  the  gleam  in  the  dog's  eyes,  fixt  upon 
him  unwaveringly.  He  understood  their  ap 
peal.  Slowly  he  unfastened  and  raised  his 
lantern. 

When  he  recognised  Lora,  he  knew  intui 
tively  what  had  happened.  With  uplifted  arm, 
he  let  the  light  fall  all  around  —  above  weedy, 
sea-swept  boulders,  and  the  dark,  inward-mov 
ing  flood,  broken  here  and  there  into  a  seethe 
of  foam  that  shone  ghastly  white  in  the  lantern- 
glow. 

There  was  no  sign  of  Alastair. 

It  was  clear  he  was  either  already  swept  into 
the  chasm,  or  had  been  sucked  seaward  in  the 
undertow. 


94  Pharais. 

With  utmost  care,  Macrae  stepped  on  to  the 
lowest  ledge. 

Stooping,  he  looked  intently  in  Lora's  white 
face.  Then  he  put  his  hand  to  her  heart.  He 
fancied  he  felt  it  beat,  but  could  not  be  sure. 
Drawing  a  flask  from  his  pocket,  he  poured 
some  of  the  contents  down  her  throat,  then 
upon  her  temples  and  breast,  with  rough  hand 
laving  the  spirit  across  the  bosom,  which,  cold 
as  it  was,  had  not  the  unmistakable  chill  of 
death.  A  new  strength  came  to  the  old  man. 
He  had  lost  all  fear  now,  and  had  no  other 
thought  but  to  save  this  poor  creature  who  had 
already  looked  on  the  face  of  Death,  and  nigh 
perished  with  the  horror  of  it. 

Taking  her  in  his  arms,  he  was  swiftly  secur 
ing  her  to  his  body  by  the  rope,  when  he  was 
startled  to  see  Ghaoth,  who  had  at  once  let  go 
his  hold,  leap  into  the  surge  and  swim  seaward. 

The  dog  went  to  its  doom,  he  knew,  in  a 
vain  quest  for  Alastair.  With  a  moment's  sigh, 
he  turned  to  what  he  had  to  do. 

An  arduous  and  perilous  climb  it  was  ere  the 
old  islesman  at  last  neared  the  summit,  and 
felt  Ranald  grasp  him  by  the  shoulder  and  help 
him  and  his  burden  over  the  edge. 

He  would  have  swooned  from  the  long  strain 
upon  him,  had  not  his  son  hastily  put  the  flask 
of  whiskey  to  his  mouth  and  imperatively  bid 
him  drink. 

As  soon  as  he  could  breathe  freely  once 
more,  he  recounted  what  had  happened.  The 
young  man  wanted  to  go  down  at  once  into  the 


Pharais.  95 

cave  and  seek  for  Alastair,  in  the  hope  that  he 
might  still  be  swimming  in  the  open,  or  be  some 
where  afloat,  and  that  Ghaoth  might  reach  him 
and  bring  him  to  the  spot  where  the  dog  had 
guarded  Lora  —  almost  from  the  moment, 
though  of  course  neither  Macrae  nor  his  son 
knew  aught  of  this,  when  the  first  ledge-sweep 
ing  wave  broke  upon  the  sleepers  and  reft 
asunder  their  impotent  weedy  bonds. 

But  of  this  project  Angus  Macrae  would  hear 
nothing  further.  Was  his  son  mad,  he  asked 
him,  to  believe  that  Alastair  could  still  be  alive, 
since  he  was  visible  nowhere  ? 

"  No,"  he  added,  "  he  is  in  the  deep  sea  by 
now,  or  lies  gript  by  the  Woman  in  her  hole. 
But,  Ranald,  if  to  search  for  his  body  you  are 
so  fain,  you  can  go  down  later.  May  be  you 
will  find  the  dog,  though  I  think  neither  you, 
nor  I,  nor  any  one  else  will  ever  see  dog  or 
man  again.  Meanwhile,  take  up  this  poor  soul 
and  carry  her  to  Widow  Ealasaid's. 

"  She  is  big  with  child,"  whispered  the  young 
man,  as,  awe-struck,  he  wrapped  Lora  in  his 
warm  plaid  and  raised  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Ay :  God  have  pity  on  this  lost  ewe  and 
her  poor,  wee  lammie.  Be  careful,  Ranald,  be 
tender  —  ay,  as  tender  as  if  she  were  your 
own  Cairistine,  and  the  babe  that  is  now  mov 
ing  within  her  were  blood  of  your  blood  and 
bone  of  your  bone." 

In  silence,  and  as  swiftly  as  possible,  the 
two  men,  with  their  still  more  silent  burden, 
crossed  the  slopes  of  the  ridge  and  ascended 


96  Pharais. 

the  grassy,  boulder-strewn  brae.  In  due  time, 
they  were  met  at  the  door  by  Ealasaid. 

With  a  low,  crooning  wail,  the  old  woman 
helped  to  lay  Lora  on  the  bed  in  the  inner 
room.  She  had  already  warmed  the  clothes, 
and  had  poured  boiling  water  in  a  tub,  with  hot 
flannels  for  swathing.  All  island-women  act 
thus  on  any  hint  of  accident,  for  the  hunger  of 
the  sea  is  the  cause  of  nearly  every  disaster  for 
them  and  their  loved  ones.  Besides  —  had 
not  Duncan  Ban  once  been  brought  home,  and 
all  this  and  more  done  for  him,  though  the 
chill  upon  him  was  not  that  of  the  sea  only  ? 

Suddenly  she  saw  there  was  no  time  to  lose. 

"Quick,  quick,  Pol,"  she  cried:  "take  a 
lantern  and  run  like  the  wind  across  to  the 
clachan,  and  tell  Mrs.  Mary  Maclean  that  she 
is  to  come  here  at  once,  for  Alastair  Macleod 
is  dead,  and  his  wife  is  lying  here  in  labour,  and 
that  the  last  pains  may  come  upon  her 
speedily." 

The  boy  hesitated  a  moment,  glanced  at  his 
grandfather,  and  then  fled  into  the  night,  heed 
less  of  any  lantern,  and  sure-footed  as  a  goat. 

Finding  that  he  could  be  of  no  use,  and  that 
Mrs.  MacAodh  wished  only  his  father  to  re 
main,  Ranald  Macrae  slipped  quietly  away:  and 
in  a  brief  while  had  reached  the  cave-entrance, 
descended,  and  searched  vainly  for  any  trace 
of  either  Alastair  or  the  dog. 

To  Ealasaid's  unceasing  care  Lora  owed  her 
life.  The  old  woman  seemed  to  have  grown 
years  younger.  A  new  strength  was  in  her 


Pharais.  97 

arm,  a  new  light  in  her  worn  eyes,  a  new  spirit 
in  her  frail  body.  With  deft  hands,  she  rubbed 
the  skin  aglow,  wrapped  warm  flannels  about 
the  limbs,  breathed  into  breast  and  back, 
soothed  the  convulsive  strainings  of  the  sides 
and  heavy  womb,  fed  the  unconscious  sufferer 
with  sips  of  broth  and  warmed  spirit,  and  often 
the  while  kissed  the  poor  faintly  quivering  lips. 
It  seemed  to  her  as  if  her  heart  swam  in  tears ; 
but,  with  the  unnoticed  heroism  of  women,  she 
let  no  grief  overmaster  her,  no  flagging  of  mind 
or  body  usurp  her  will. 

In  the  outer  room  Angus  Macrae  sat,  intent 
at  first  upon  the  keeping  up  of  the  fire  and 
the  fulfilment  of  Ealasaid's  divers  commands. 
Then,  nigh  an  hour  later,  when  through  the 
open  doorway  he  heard  a  strange  moaning  from 
the  inner  room,  he  sat  down  by  the  low,  rude 
table,  and,  taking  the  Gaelic  Bible  which  lay 
there,  began  in  a  slow,  monotonous  voice  to  read 
from  the  page  which  caught  his  eye  as  he 
opened  the  book :  — 

"  I  returned,  and  saw  under  the  sun,  that  the  race  is 
not  to  the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong,  neither 
yet  bread  to  the  wise,  nor  yet  riches  to  men  of  under 
standing,  nor  yet  favour  to  men  of  skill ;  but  time  and 
chance  happeneth  to  them  all.  For  man  also  knoweth 
not  his  time :  as  the  fishes  that  are  taken  in  an  evil 
net,  and  as  the  birds  that  are  caught  in  the  snare,  even 
so  are  the  sons  of  men  snared  in  an  evil  time,  when  it 
falleth  suddenly  upon  them." 

As  he  read  steadfastly  onward  through  this 
moving  last  chapter  of  Ecclesiastes,  his  voice 
rose,  and  took  a  rhythmic  chant,  and  filled  the 
7 


98  Pharais. 

room,  as  a  rising  wind  fills  a  valley  set  among 
the  hills. 

But  when  he  had  read  : 

11  As  thou  knowest  not  what  is  the  way  of  the  wind, 
nor  how  the  bones  do  grow  in  the  womb  of  her  that  is 
with  child ;  even  so  thou  knowest  not  the  work  of 
God  who  doeth  all-—" 

he  stopped  abruptly,  for  he  heard  a  sound  at 
the  outer  door,  and  guessed,  even  before  he 
saw  her,  that  the  comer  was  Mrs.  Maclean. 

Angus  rose,  and  took  her  hand.  Then,  see 
ing  the  speechless  sorrow  in  her  eyes,  he  let 
go  his  hold  of  her,  and,  bowing  his  head,  did 
not  lift  up  his  eyes  again  till  Mary  had  entered 
the  inner  room. 

He  knew  that,  with  these  two  women  there, 
all  would  go  well  with  Lora,  if  it  were  ordained 
that  she  was  to  live.  But  he  feared  that  death 
was  already  entered  in  at  the  door ;  and  he 
knew  not  what  passionate  sorrow  might  come 
upon  and  undo  those  who  ministered  to  the 
woman  who  even  now  was  in  those  pains  of 
labour  that  ere  morn  should  end  in  the  birth 
of  a  child.  Long  he  sat  brooding.  Then, 
weary  of  his  vigil,  once  more  he  began  to  read, 
resuming  with  the  verse  where  he  had  been 
interrupted :  — 

"  Even  so,  thou  knowest  not  the  work  of  God  who 
doeth  all. 

"  In  the  morning  sow  thy  seed,  and  in  the  evening 
withhold  not  thine  hand :  for  thou  knowest  not  which 
shall  prosper,  whether  this  or  that,  or  whether  they 
both  shall  be  alike  good." 


Pharais.  99 

Looking  up,  he  saw  Ealasaid  standing  at  the 
door,  a  wonderful  light  on  her  old  face. 

"It  lives,"  she  said  simply.  "Mary  said 
that  the  child  would  certainly  be  born  dead ; 
but  it  lives.  She  says  now  it  has  the  shadow 
upon  it,  and  must  die  ere  long ;  but  they  told 
me  that  my  own  little  blossom  was  strong,  and 
would  live  :  .  .  .  and  even  as  they  were  wrong, 
wrong  also  may  Mary  Maclean  be." 

Hearing  a  call,  she  turned,  and  went  within. 

The  old  islesman  muttered  for  a  while,  with 
bent  head  and  closed  eyes.  Then  he  began 
to  read  again :  — 

"  Truly  the  light  is  sweet,  and  a  pleasant  thing  it  is 
for  the  eyes  to  behold  the  sun." 

"  Hush !  " 

It  was  Mary  who  spoke.  She  had  that  in 
her  face  which  made  him  rise. 

"  Hush,  Angus  Macrae.  Truly,  the  eyes  are 
the  delight  of  the  body,  but  this  is  not  the 
time  for  the  bitterness  of  that  saying.  Never 
for  this  child,  that  is  born  in  the  shadow  of 
death,  and  can  itself  live  but  a  brief  while, 
shall  there  be  the  sweet  light  of  which  you 
speak,  nor  the  pleasantness  of  beholding  the  sun, 
nor  the  way  of  the  day  betwixt  rise  and  set." 

"Is  the  child  blind?" 

"Ay  ...  blind  .  .  .  blind." 

"And  weakling?" 

"  Ay." 

"And  she?" 

"  God  hath  given  her  strength  to  endure." 


ioo  Pharais. 

"  Does  she  know  all  that  has  happened  ?  " 

"If  she  did,  she  would  be  with  Alastair. 
Her  mind  is  dazed.  She  is  as  one  distraught. 
My  friend,  read  no  more  to-night.  Go  home 
now,  and  God  be  with  you.  Bring  on  the 
morrow  what  tidings  you  have." 

Soon  after  the  departure  of  the  old  man,  a 
great  stillness  fell  upon  the  house.  Lora  slept 
in  a  stupor  like  unto  death.  The  child  lay 
upon  her  breast,  as  a  frail  flower  drifted  there 
by  a  chance  wind.  Ealasaid  sat  by  the  bed 
watching.  Mary  knelt  against  it,  crying  silently. 

Towards  dawn,  Mrs.  Maclean  rose,  and  looked 
out  upon  the  chill  dusk.  When  she  came  back, 
she  kneeled  again ;  and,  in  a  low  voice,  repeated 
a  strange  Celtic  "  Prayer  of  Women  "  :  — 

O  Spirit,  that  broods  upon  the  hills 

And  moves  upon  the  face  of  the  deep, 

And  is  heard  in  the  wind, 

Save  us  from  the  desire  of  men's  eyes, 

And  the  cruel  lust  of  them, 

And  the  springing  of  the  cruel  seed 

In  that  narrow  house  which  is  as  the  grave 

For  darkness  and  loneliness  .  .  . 

That  women  carry  with  them  with  shame,  and  weariness, 

and  long  pain, 

Only  for  the  laughter  of  man's  heart, 
And  the  joy  that  triumphs  therein, 
And  the  sport  that  is  in  his  heart, 
Wherewith  he  mocketh  us, 
Wherewith  he  playeth  with  us, 
Wherewith  he  trampleth  upon  us  . 
Us,  who  conceive  and  bear  him ; 
Us,  who  bring  him  forth ; 
Who  feed  him  in  the  womb,  and  at  the  breast,  and  at 

the  knee : 
Whom  he  calleth  Mother, 


Pharais.'  ,    ;  10 


And  Mother  again  of  his  wife  and  children  : 

When  he  looks  at  our  hair,  and  sees  it  is  white  ; 

And  at  our  eyes,  and  sees  they  are  dim  ; 

And  at  our  lips,  straitened  out  with  long  pain  ; 

And  at  our  breasts,  fallen  and  seared  as  a  barren  hill  ; 

And  at  our  hands,  worn  with  toil  ; 

And,  seeing,  seeth  all  the  bitter  ruin  and  wreck  of  us  — 

All  save  the  violated  womb  that  curses  him  — 

All  save  the  heart  that  forbeareth  .  .  for  pity  — 

All  save  the  living  brain  that  condemneth  him  — 

All  save  the  spirit  that  shall  not  mate  with  him  — 

All  save  the  soul  he  shall  never  see 

Till  he  be  one  with  it,  and  equal  ; 

He  who  hath  the  bridle,  but  guideth  not  ; 

He  who  hath  the  whip,  yet  is  driven  ; 

He  who  as  a  shepherd  calleth  upon  us, 

But  is  himself  a  lost  sheep,  crying  among  the  hills  I 

O  Spirit,  and  the  Nine  Angels  who  watch  us, 

And  Thy  Son,  and  Mary  Virgin, 

Heal  us  of  the  Wrong  of  Man  : 

We,  whose  breasts  are  weary  with  milk, 

Cry,  cry  to  Thee,  O  Compassionate  I 

Ealasaid  trembled.   She  had  never  heard  words 
such  as  these  before,  and  was  afraid  ;  yet  even 
more  of  the  strange  intensity  in  the  voice  of  Mrs. 
Maclean,  in  the  shine  of  her  usually  quiet  eyes. 
"  God  be  with  you,  Mary  Maclean." 
"  And  with  you,  Ealasaid  MacAodh." 
Therewith   Mrs.  Maclean   arose,   looked   at 
Lora  to  see  if  she  still   slept,  and   then  went 
into  the  adjoining  room,  where  she  seated  her 
self  before  the  hot  glow  of  the  peats  ;  and,  as 
the  day  broke,  read  below  her  breath  in  the 
third  chapter  of  the  Book  of  Job. 

Weeks   passed,  and   there  was  no  word   of 
Alastair.     For  twenty  days  after  the  coming  of 


a:V!        ;  e'.   Pharais. 


the  child,  Lora  lay  distraught,  knowing  no  one 
about  her,  though  oftentimes  looking  long  and 
lovingly  in  the  eyes  of  Mary,  whose  face  had 
won  again  an  exceeding  peace,  and  who  went, 
as  of  yore,  girt  about  with  a  beautiful  silence 
as  with  a  garment. 

But  on  the  last  day  of  the  third  week,  Lora 
awoke  in  her  right  mind.  Mary  had  given  the 
frail,  blind  babe  to  young  Cairistine  Macrae  to 
suckle.  This  was  well  ;  for  had  Lora  looked 
upon  it  on  that  day,  she  would  have  died. 

Nevertheless,  in  a  brief  while  thereafter  she 
knew  all.  It  seemed  strange,  both  to  Mary 
and  Ealasaid,  that  she  did  not  appear  greatly 
to  care.  She  had  that  in  her  heart  which 
would  have  enlightened  them;  but  grief,  as 
well  as  madness  or  evil,  has  its  cunning,  and  so 
she  veiled  her  purpose  in  absolute  secrecy. 

Not  a  sign  of  Alastair  !  This  was  what  she 
could  not  accept.  Till  his  body,  or  some  trace 
of  it,  were  found,  she  said  she  would  not  return 
with  Mary  to  her  home.  Nothing,  however, 
repaid  the  most  scrupulous  search  :  no  clue  was 
gained  —  unless  the  discovery  of  the  body  of 
Ghaoth,  caught  in  a  trawling  net  one  night  a 
mile  seaward,  could  be  called  a  clue. 

On  that  day  of  agony  when  she  had  at  last 
looked  on  the  face  of  her  child,  and  knew  it 
stricken  with  frailty  and  blind  for  all  its  days, 
and  heritor  perhaps  of  that  curse  which  had 
caused  her  to  sin  and  incur  this  punishment, 
she  had  made  a  covenant  with  herself  to  go 
down  as  soon  as  she  could  to  the  shore,  at  low 


Pharais.  103 

tide,  and  with  her  child  follow  Alastair  into  that 
abyss  in  the  cavern  where  she  felt  assured  he 
had  been  swept  by  the  sea. 

Two  weary  weeks  passed  before  an  oppor 
tunity  came.  One  afternoon  Mary  went  across 
Innisron,  so  as  to  reach  the  clachan  and  meet 
the  Clansman  for  somewhat  she  expected  :  and 
as  she  was  to  come  back  with  Ranald  Macrae, 
and  he  was  not  to  return  till  after  dark,  Lora 
felt  secure. 

Early  in  the  evening,  she  sent  Ealasaid  on  a 
message  to  Parian  Macalister's  wife,  who  lived 
in  a  cottage  about  a  mile  along  the  shore 
beyond  the  promontory  of  Ardfeulan. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening  in  mid- July.  The 
moon  was  at  the  full,  and  made  a  golden  dust 
upon  the  isle  and  a  glory  of  pale  gold  upon  the 
sea. 

As  she  went  once  more  down  the  hollow  of 
the  moonflowers  —  not  so  dense  now  as  then, 
and  many  withered  by  the  heat  of  the  sun  and 
the  month-long  drought  —  she  stopped  again 
and  again,  overcome  by  the  heat  even  of  the 
dusk. 

In  her  ears  was  the  bewildered,  plaintive  cry 
of  the  lapwings  :  and,  as  an  undertone,  the  low, 
soft  chime  —  the  long,  sweet  ululation  of  the 
myriad-swung  bell  of  the  sea. 

She  was  weary  when  she  reached  the  shore. 
An  unspeakable  horror  of  the  cavern  came  upon 
her,  and  she  turned  and  went  slowly  towards 
the  long  sandy  tract  that  stretched  beyond  the 
base  of  the  hollow.  There  she  laid  the  child 


IO4  Pharais. 

gently  down  in  the  soft  sand  at  her  feet,  and 
seated  herself  on  a  low  rock. 

After  all,  was  it  worth  while  to  seek  Death, 
when  Death  had  already  whispered  that  the 
little  one  was  to  be  his  own  so  soon,  and  had 
stealthily  removed  all  but  the  last  barriers  that 
guarded  her  own  poor  life? 

Would  God  not  be  even  more  wroth  with  her 
—  punish  her  even  more  heavily ;  though  this, 
indeed,  seemed  impossible? 

How  lovely  that  vast  ocean  veiled  in  violet 
dusk,  save  where  lit  gloriously  with  moonlight : 
how  full  of  alluring  peace,  she  thought,  that 
wave-whisper  all  around  her. 

Surely  the  music  was  woven  into  a  song  that 
was  dear  and  familiar  in  her  ears  ? 

She  turned  her  head  away  from  the  sea,  and 
looked  idly  along  the  sand  :  though,  as  she  did 
so,  the  vague  strain  ceased. 

Then  Lora  stood,  trembling  in  a  great  awe, 
and  with  a  passionate  hope  in  her  eyes,  in  her 
heart,  at  the  very  springs  of  life. 

In  the  moonshine,  she  saw  a  tall  figure 
moving  slowly  towards  her,  naked-white,  and 
walking  with  a  proud  mien.  The  erect  body, 
the  flashing  eyes,  the  grace  and  beauty,  were 
those  of  a  king  —  of  a  king  among  men  :  and 
as  a  king  the  naked  figure  was  crowned,  with 
moonflowers  and  yellow  sea-poppies  woven  into 
his  gold- sheen  hair. 

Suddenly  he  saw  her.  He  stood  as  though 
wrought  in  impassioned  stone.  The  moonshine 
fell  full  upon  his  white  skin,  upon  the  beauty  of 


Pharais.  105 

his  face,  upon  the  flower-tangle  wherewith  he 
had  crowned  himself. 

Then,  without  a  sound,  he  turned  and  fled 
like  the  wind,  and  vanished  into  the  gloom 
that  lay  beyond  the  dusk. 

And  Lora,  lifting  the  child  and  staggering 
homeward,  knew  that  she  had  seen  Alastair. 


io6  Pharais. 


VI. 


IT  was  not  till  many  weeks  later  that  the  way  of 
Alastair's  escape  from  death  became  known. 

On  that  dark  night  when  he  had  lain  down 
to  die,  the  wave  which  fell  across  Lora  and 
himself,  and  tore  asunder  the  bonds  she  had 
woven,  was  followed  by  no  other  for  a  time : 
otherwise,  the  end  of  both  would  have  been 
attained.  But  so  great  was  the  shock,  that  his 
apathy  of  mind  and  body  was  rudely  broken. 
The  tired  blood  stung  in  his  veins ;  the  instinct 
of  life  was  as  a  flame  of  fire  that  consumed  all 
the  stupor  due  to  the  sea-fruit  he  had  eaten  —  an 
instinct  that  wrought  him  to  a  passion  of  effort. 

Shaken  and  trembling,  he  staggered  to  his 
feet.  Nothing  but  a  profound  darkness  be 
yond,  behind,  above :  a  darkness  filled  with 
the  voices  of  the  wind,  the  seething  tide,  wave 
falling  over  wave,  billow  leaping  after  billow  and 
tearing  it  into  a  yeast  of  foam  —  itself  to 
stagger  the  next  moment,  and  struggle  and 
strangle  furiously  in  a  cloud  of  spray  ere  flung 
a  dead  mass  upon  the  shore. 

He  had  no  remembrance  of  Lora,  of  what 
had  brought  them  here,  of  the  grave  that  was 
ready  where  the  Sea- Woman  watched. 

But  fear  was  left  to  him :  and  when  he  was 
aware  of  something  moving  across  the  ledges  to 


Pharais.  107 

his  left,  and  heard  it  splash  through  the  tide- 
wash  in  its  effort  to  reach  him,  he  gave  a 
terrified  cry,  and  dashed  seaward  to  escape 
the  grip  of  the  kelpie. 

Stumbling,  he  fell  heavily  forward.  But  it 
was  into  deep  water ;  and,  powerful  swimmer 
as  he  was,  he  fought  the  surge,  and  so  was  not 
thrown  back  upon  the  rocks  till,  unwittingly,  he 
was  caught  in  a  cross-current  and  swept  south 
ward  on  the  backs  of  the  reeling  sea-horses. 

A  horrible  tumult  was  in  his  ears.  The  dark 
ness  was  upon  him  as  a  heavy  hand.  As  idle 
flotsam,  the  waves  swung  him  backward  and 
forward. 

A  deathly  cold  beset  his  limbs ;  then  utter 
weariness.  His  hands  ceased  to  propel,  and 
only  automatically  and  instinctively  kept  him 
afloat. 

Yet  even  now,  at  the  last  extremity,  when 
memory  was  no  more,  terror  remained. 

There  was  something  swimming  near,  some 
thing  moving  towards  him  through  the  dark. 

The  next  moment  he  threw  up  his  hands, 
overcome  by  the  sickness  of  fear  and  a  fatigue 
that  he  could  no  longer  withstand.  As  he  sank, 
he  was  conscious  of  a  body  surging  up  against 
his ;  of  a  hot  breath  against  his  face ;  of  a 
gasping  whine  against  his  ear.  Then  in  a  flash 
he  recognised,  or  by  instinct  divined,  that  it  was 
Ghaoth  who  had  followed  into  the  darkness,  and 
was  there  to  save  him. 

The  dog  had  indeed  followed,  having  but  an 
hour  ago  escaped  from  the  byre  where  Ian  Mac- 


io8  Pharais. 

lean  had  risen  from  his  sleep  to  let  him  out  be 
cause  of  his  ceaseless  whining.  He  had  raced 
across  the  island,  and  along  Alastair's  and 
Lora's  track,  till  he  found  them  where  they  lay. 
Thence,  after  seeing  the  two  whom  he  loved 
lying  silent  and  motionless  in  a  way  that  made 
him  whine  with  fear,  and  knowing,  as  faithful 
dogs  do  know,  that  he  must  win  help  without 
delay,  he  had  sped  back  to  the  nearest  cottage. 
Once  convinced  that  old  Ealasaid  was  following 
to  succour  those  whom  he  had  left,  he  had 
sprung  away  again  through  the  moonflowers, 
and  had  reached  the  entrance  to  the  cave  after 
fierce  baffling  with  the  tide-race.  Just  as 
Alastair  had  risen  and  was  staggering  towards 
the  sea,  Ghaoth  had  caught  sight  of  him,  and 
had  plunged  without  hesitation  into  the  black 
bewilderment  of  waters  which  had  swallowed  up 
the  friend  whom  he  loved  with  his  life. 

Fortunately,  the  spent  swimmer  was  still  near 
the  shore  —  nearer,  even,  than  when  he  had 
first  fallen ;  for  he  was  now  close  to  the  head 
land  of  Craig-Geal,  and  was  already  in  shallow 
water,  which  swung  on  to  a  long  shelf  of  sand 
lying  against  the  entrance  to  another  of  the 
innumerable  caverns  of  that  side  of  the  island. 
But  here  the  sea,  though  at  full- flood  it  covered 
the  sand  and  moved  its  hungry  lip  for  a  few 
feet  within,  did  not  enter,  as  a  beast  of  prey 
halting  unassuaged  at  the  entrance  to  its  lair. 

Ghaoth  had  gripped  him  by  the  hair  of  his 
neck,  and  was  now  struggling  to  reach  the 
shore.  Man  and  dog  were  still  flung  to  and 


Pharais.  109 

fro  by  the  waves ;  but  the  living  sport  of  the 
sea  was  no  longer  separate.  With  Ghaoth's 
help,  Alastair  made  renewed,  if  despairing, 
efforts. 

Suddenly  his  feet  touched  the  ground  for  a 
moment.  Then,  with  a  staggering  rush  having 
shaken  himself  free  of  the  dog,  he  gained  the 
shore,  stumbled  blindly  up  the  low  shelve  of 
the  sound,  and  fell  unconscious  among  the  soft, 
powdery  grit,  midway  in  the  wide,  half-roofless 
hollow  known  as  the  Cave  of  the  Sulaire,  from 
the  solan  geese  which  often  congregated  there 
in  the  blinding  snow-storms  of  winter. 

Ghaoth  stood  panting  beside  him  awhile.  At 
last,  with  a  low  whine,  the  dog  pressed  his 
muzzle  against  the  white  face  in  the  white  sand ; 
turned  aside,  whined  again,  and  came  back 
with  lolling  tongue.  Then,  suddenly,  he  sprang 
away  into  the  darkness,  and  back  into  the 
drowning  surge,  with  all  his  loyal,  loving  heart 
—  beautiful  love  of  the  dumb  animal-soul  that 
God  heedeth  and  cherisheth  no  less  than  that 
other  wandering  fire  He  hath  placed  in  the 
human  —  eager  to  baffle  with  drift  and  billow 
till  he  reached  the  cavern  once  more,  in  time 
to  save  Lora,  of  whose  body  he  had  caught  a 
glimpse  as  he  dashed  after  Alastair. 

In  time,  and  no  more.  He  had  not  long 
rescued  Lora,  who,  also,  had  been  partially 
roused  by  the  shock  of  the  breaking  wave. 
She  had  been  half-standing,  half-leaning  against 
the  higher  ledge,  to  which,  with  difficulty  and  in 
blind  instinct,  she  had  clung ;  but,  as  Ghaoth 


no  Pharais. 

reached  her,  she  sank  wearily  and  lay  back 
against  the  dog,  dreaming  she  had  waked  in 
terror,  but  was  now  safe  in  Alastair's  arms. 

It  was  thus  that  Angus  Macrae  discovered 
them.  Long  afterwards  the  isleman  recalled 
how  he  had  seen  the  dog  leap  back  into  the 
darkness.  Whether  Ghaoth  failed  to  reach  the 
Cave  of  the  Sulaire,  and  was  carried  seaward 
by  a  current;  or  whether  his  strength  failed 
him  in  his  last  effort,  and  he  was  swung  life 
lessly  from  wave  to  wave;  whatever  the  first 
word  of  his  fate  was,  the  last  was  the  finding  of 
his  sea-mangled  body  in  the  trawl-net  of  a 
fisherman  more  than  a  mile  oceanward  from 
Innisron. 

When  Alastair  woke,  an  hour  or  more  after 
dawn,  he  remembered  nothing  of  what  had 
happened.  His  memory,  though  not  killed, 
was  clouded  by  his  madness;  and,  doubtless, 
the  shock  of  what  he  had  gone  through,  with 
the  action  of  the  mermaid's  fruit,  had  further 
weakened  it. 

He  rose  and  looked  about  him  wonderingly. 
Around,  were  the  precipitous  rocks;  beyond, 
the  sea  stretched  far  into  the  morning  mists, 
calm,  with  a  silver  sparkle  in  the  southeast,  and 
turquoise-blue  elsewhere,  except  in  green  straits 
under  the  shadow  of  the  isle,  till  it  faded  into 
opal  and  dove-grey  where  the  veils  of  mist 
slowly  dispersed,  re-wove,  lifted,  in-wove,  and 
sank  to  the  wave  again,  or  sailed  indefinitely 
away. 


Pharais.  1 1 1 

Though  he  could  still  recall  nothing  of  the 
past  night,  he  recognised,  as  soon  as  he  stepped 
from  the  cave  and  went  down  by  the  sea- 
marge,  the  head-land  of  Craig-Ruaidh  and  that 
of  Craigh-Geal  just  behind  him.  His  one  wish 
was  to  hide,  so  that  none  should  see  him.  His 
fantasy  led  him  to  seek  remote  places,  and  to 
fear  the  face  of  his  fellows. 

Turning  towards  the  sun,  he  looked  scruti- 
nisingly  along  the  coast.  Somewhere  beyond 
Craig-Geal,  he  remembered  vaguely,  there  was 
another  hollow  which  led  to  a  series  of  intri 
cate  and  unexplored  caves,  perilous  places  of 
evil  repute  among  the  islanders. 

If  he  were  to  go  there  .  .  .  but  at  that 
moment  his  wandering  gaze  lighted  upon  an 
object  moving  black  in  the  shine  of  the  sea. 

Was  it  a  whale  sunning  itself,  or  a  pollack 
moving  idly  after  the  Hath?  Then  he  saw  that 
it  was  a  boat  —  one  of  many  torn  from  moor 
ings  or  swept  from  the  beach  by  the  recent 
gale. 

So  methodical  were  his  actions,  that  none 
seeing  him  would  believe  his  mind  was  so 
darkly  veiled,  that  his  reason  was  only  partially 
in  exercise. 

Having  taken  off  his  coat,  he  wrapt  it  round 
a  heavy  stone  and  threw  the  bundle  far  into  the 
sea.  Then  he  thrust  his  boots  into  a  cranny 
in  a  fissured  boulder  that  at  full  flood  was 
covered. 

A  few  seconds  later  he  was  in  the  water, 
swimming  swiftly  towards  the  derelict. 


112  Pharais. 

While  he  neared  the  boat,  amid  a  sheen  of 
sparkling  foam  as  he  urged  his  way  through  the 
sun- dazzle  which  lay  upon  that  part  of  the  sea, 
he  broke  intermittently  into  a  mournful  Gaelic 
chant,  but  with  words  so  incoherent,  and  with 
interjections  so  wild  and  strange,  that  the  fisher 
men  on  a  coble,  hid  in  the  mist  a  few  fathoms 
away,  believed  they  listened  to  a  sea-kelpie,  or 
to  that  vague  object  of  their  profoundest  dread 
known  as  "the  thing  that  hides  beneath  the 
boat."  They  were  southward  bound;  but  at 
that  forlorn  wailing  they  hauled  down  their 
flapping  sail,  and,  with  their  oars,  made  all 
haste  northerly  to  their  island  or  mainland 
haven.  Not  a  man  among  them  would  have 
persevered  in  that  voyage  on  that  day. 

Alastair  heard  the  sound  of  the  oar-wash, 
and  ceased  his  fitful  chant.  It  must,  he 
thought,  be  dead  seamen  rowing  to  and  fro, 
looking  for  the  newly  drowned  to  take  their 
places  as  warders  of  the  treasures  and  keepers 
of  the  secrets  which  lie  among  the  weed-tangle 
and  sunless  caverns  of  the  deep.  At  the 
thought,  he  laughed  loud,  but  mirthlessly ;  and 
the  echo  of  his  laughter,  falling  against  the  ears 
of  the  fishermen,  added  to  their  horror  and 
consternation. 

With  his  hands  gripping  the  gunwale,  he 
swayed  for  some  time  to  and  fro,  fascinated  by 
the  lustrous  green  beneath  the  keel  —  green  in 
the  sunlit  spaces  as  leaves  of  the  lime  in  April, 
and  in  the  lower  as  emerald  lapsing  into  jade, 
and  then  as  jade  passing  into  the  gloom  of 
pines  at  dusk. 


Pharais.  113 

At  last  he  raised  himself  on  the  water,  bend 
ing  the  gunwale  low,  and  half  fell,  half  crawled 
into  the  boat.  Indifferently,  he  noticed  that  it 
was  named  Fionnaghal.  Clearly  it  had  drifted 
away  from  moorings ;  for  not  only  were  oars 
and  sail- enveloped  mast  lying  taut  under  the 
thwarts,  but  a  rope  trailed  from  the  bow  far 
down  into  the  water. 

He  rowed  for  some  time.  At  last,  becoming 
weary,  or  perhaps  puzzled  by  the  mists  which 
crept  behind  and  all  around  him,  he  desisted. 
A  flurry  of  air  struck  his  right  cheek.  Instinc 
tively  he  put  up  the  palm  of  his  hand  to  feel  if 
the  wind  were  coming  from  the  south-east  or 
the  south-west.  Then,  adjusting  the  mast  and 
setting  the  sail,  he  seated  himself  at  the 
tiller. 

Eddy  followed  eddy,  and  soon  a  breeze  blew 
freshly  from  the  south-east.  By  the  time  the 
Fionnaghal  was  three  or  four  miles  to  the 
north-west  of  Innisr6n,  there  was  not  a  mist 
upon  the  sea.  Immeasurably  vast  it  stretched ; 
blue,  or  glittering  in  a  diamond-sparkle  sheen, 
or  wimpling  over  in  violet  hollows,  with  the 
white  lambs  beginning  to  collect  and  leap  mer 
rily  onward  in  the  pathway  of  the  sun. 

Alastair  became  drowsy  with  the  warmth  of 
the  glow  upon  his  back  and  the  chime  of  the 
sea- music.  Long  before  noon  he  slept.  For 
hours  the  boat  went  idly  adrift. 

When  he  woke,  he  saw  an  island  less  than 
half-a-mile  to  starboard.  Looking  northward, 
he  could  descry  nothing  but  sea ;  to  the  west- 
8 


H4  Pharais. 

ward,  nothing  but  sea ;  nothing  but  sea  to  the 
southward.  Far  eastward,  a  dim  blue  line  of 
hills  rose  above  the  horizon  :  here  and  there  — 
lying  apparently  against  it,  and  scarce  bigger  to 
his  eye  than  the  gannets  and  sea-mews  which 
flew  overhead  —  two  or  three  patches  of 
amethyst.  These  were  the  isles  he  had  left, 
though  he  did  not  recognise  them :  Ithona, 
most  westerly ;  Innisron,  remote  in  the  south 
east  ;  I-na-Trilleachan-trahad,  lost  in  its  north 
erly  purple-greys. 

Though  the  words  brought  no  meaning  to 
him,  or  awakened  nothing  beyond  mere  visual 
reminiscence,  his  lips,  as  he  looked  at  the 
island  he  was  now  approaching,  framed  its 
name,  "I-M6nair." 

Heedless  of  the  fact  that  he  was  running 
straight  upon  a  shore  set  with  reefs  like  gigantic 
teeth,  he  tautened  the  sail  and  let  the  boat  rush 
forward,  and  was  almost  havened  when,  with  a 
grinding  rip,  the  Fionnaghal  stopped,  filled, 
leaned  over,  and  hung  upon  a  jagged  reef,  as  a 
dead  body  suspended  on  the  horn  that  has 
gored  it. 

Alastair  was  thrown  forward  by  the  shock. 
Bruised  and  stunned,  he  lay  motionless  for  a 
few  seconds  while  the  water  poured  over  him. 
Then,  rising,  and  casting  a  keen  glance  around, 
he  stepped  on  to  the  reef,  sprang  thence  to  a 
rock  nearer  the  shore,  and  thence  to  the  shore 
itself. 

As  he  left  the  boat,  it  split.  The  larger  half 
went  drifting  on  the  tide. 


Pharais.  115 

He  sat  down  to  watch  idly  for  the  disappear 
ance  of  the  few  planks  which  remained.  Sud 
denly,  without  cause,  he  rose,  stared  wildly  at 
the  sea  and  along  the  shore  on  either  hand, 
and  then  moved  rapidly  inland  —  often  casting 
furtive  glances  behind  him,  now  on  the  one 
side,  now  on  the  other. 

No  other  lived  on  I-M6nair  than  a  shepherd 
and  his  wife ;  and  they  only  through  the  sum 
mer  months.  Sometimes  weeks  passed  by 
without  their  seeing  another  soul :  without  other 
sign  of  the  world  of  men  than  the  smoke  of  a 
steamer  far  upon  the  horizon,  or  the  brown 
patches  in  the  distance  when  the  herring- 
trawlers  ventured  oceanward. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  Fearghas  Mclan  gave 
a  cry  of  astonishment,  that  was  partly  fear,  when 
he  saw  a  man  walking  swiftly  towards  him  .  .  . 
a  man  who  appeared  to  have  dropped  from  the 
clouds;  for,  looking  beyond  the  stranger,  the 
shepherd  could  see  no  sign  of  trawler,  wherry, 
or  boat  of  any  kind. 

"Dionaid,  Dionaid,"  he  cried  to  his  wife, 
who  had  come  to  the  door  of  the  cottage  to 
see  if  he  were  at  hand  for  his  porridge ; 
"  Trothad  so  .  .  .  bi  ealamh,  bi  ealamh :  quick, 
quick,  come  here." 

They  stood  together  as  Alastair  slowly  drew 
near.  When  he  was  close,  he  stopped,  looking 
at  them  curiously,  and  with  an  air  as  if  he  won 
dered  who  they  were  and  why  they  were  there. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked  quietly, 
looking  at  the  shepherd. 


n6  Pharais. 

"  C'ainm'  tha  ort?"  he  repeated,  as  the  man 
stared  at  him  in  surprise  and  something  of 
alarm. 

"  Fearghas  Mclan." 

"  And  yours  ?  "  he  asked  of  the  woman. 

"  Dionaid  Mclan." 

"Co  tha  sin?"  he  added  abruptly,  pointing 
to  the  cottage  :  "  who  is  there?  " 

"No  one." 

"  I  thought  I  saw  some  one  come  out,  look 
at  us,  and  go  in  again." 

Fearghas  and  Dionaid  glanced  at  each  other 
with  eyes  of  dread. 

"C'ainm'  tha  ort?"  asked  the  former,  in 
turn. 

Alastair  looked  at  him,  as  if  uncomprehend- 
ingly ;  and  then,  in  a  low,  dull  voice,  said  that 
he  was  tired ;  that  he  was  hungry,  and  thirsty, 
and  wet. 

"  Tha  mi  gle"  sgith ;  tha  an  t'  acras  orm  j  tha 
am  pathadh  orm  ;  tha  mi  fliuch." 

"  How  did  you  come  here? " 

"Thamigte  sgith." 

"  Did  you  come  in  a  boat?  Where  is  the 
boat  you  came  in?" 

"Thamigle  sgith." 

"What  is  your  name?  Are  you  of  the 
isles?" 

"  Tha  mi  gle  sgith." 

"  What  do  you  want  with  us  here,  on  I- 
Monair,  where  we  do  no  wrong,  O  stranger 
who  carrie th  your  sorrow  in  your  eyes?  " 

"  Tha  mi  gl£  sgith.     Tha  mi  fliuch.     Tha  an 


Pharais.  117 

t'  acras  orm.  Tha  mi  gle"  sgith  —  tha  mi  gle" 
sgith  —  tha  mi  gle"  sgith." 

Alastair  spoke  in  a  strange,  dull  voice.  It 
would  have  terrified  Fearghas  and  Dionaid 
more,  but  that  the  stranger  was  so  gentle  in  his 
manner,  and  had  a  look  upon  his  face  that 
awed  while  it  reassured  them. 

"God  has  sent  him,"  said  Dionaid,  simply. 
"The  poor  lad  has  not  waked  —  he  is  in  a 
dream.  God  do  unto  us  as  we  do  unto  this 
waif  from  the  sea.  In  His  good  time  He  will 
whisper  in  the  closed  ears,  and  the  man  will 
wake,  and  tell  us  who  he  is,  and  whence  he 
came,  and  whither  he  would  fain  go." 

"  So  be  it,  Dionaid.  You  have  said  the  word, 
and  a  good  word  it  is.  When  this  man's  hour 
has  come,  God  will  deliver  him.  Meanwhile, 
let  us  call  him  Donncha,  after  the  boy  we  lost 
nigh  upon  six- and- twenty  years  ago,  who  might 
have  been  as  tall  and  comely  as  this  stranger 
that  is  now  a  stranger  no  more,  but  of  us  and 
one  with  us." 

And  so  it  was  that,  from  that  day,  Alastair 
Macleod,  unsought  by  any,  and  unrecognised 
because  no  one  came  near  who  might  have 
known  or  guessed  who  he  was,  abode  on  I- 
Monair  with  Fearghas  the  shepherd  and  his 
wife  Dionaid. 

He  dwelt  in  peace.  Through  the  long  days 
he  wandered  about  the  shores.  Often,  in  the 
gloaming,  he  sat  on  a  rock  and  stared  longingly 
across  the  waters  for  he  knew  not  what,  for 


n8  Pharais. 

some  nameless  boon  he  craved  witlessly; 
stared  yearningly  through  the  dusk  for  some 
thing  that  lay  beyond,  that,  though  unseen, 
brought  a  mist  into  his  eyes,  so  that  when  he 
reached  the  peat-fire  again,  where  Dionaid 
Mclan  awaited  him,  he  often  could  not  see  to 
eat  for  a  while  for  the  blur  of  his  slow- falling 
tears. 

Week  succeeded  changeless  week.  The  sheep 
ceased  to  look  up  as  he  passed.  The  yellow- 
hammers  in  the  gorse  sang  even  when  he 
stopped  brooding  by  the  bush  whereon  they 
flitted  from  branch  to  branch,  looking  at  him 
the  while  with  quiet  eyes. 

It  was  in  the  sixth  week,  after  a  time  of  storm 
which  had  lapsed  into  another  long  spell  of 
exquisite  summer,  that  the  dream  came  to  its 
end. 

Late  one  afternoon,  a  herring-trawler  lay  off 
I-M6nair.  The  skipper,  a  kinsman  of  Fearghas, 
came  ashore  to  give  and  learn  what  news  there 
was. 

Alastair  had  come  back  about  the  usual  time 
from  one  of  his  day-long  rambles,  and,  as  he 
approached  the  door,  his  quick  ear  had  caught 
the  sound  of  an  alien  voice. 

Whether  he  overheard  the  shepherd  tell  his 
friend,  in  turn  for  the  strange  and  moving  tale 
of  Alastair  MacDiarmid  Macleod,  of  Innisron, 
of  the  strange  visitor  he  and  his  wife  nourished, 
with  the  surmise  that  he,  Donncha,  might  be 
no  other  than  the  missing  man ;  or  whether 
some  other  suggestion  concerning  his  removal 


Pharais.  119 

or  identification  alarmed  him,  no  one  ever 
knew. 

But,  in  the  cloudy  dark  of  that  night,  when 
Rory  Mclan  and  his  two  mates,  Dughall  and 
Eoghann,  were  drinking  the  crude  spirit  from 
Fearghas'  illicit  still,  Alastair  slipped  into  the 
small  boat  in  which  they  had  come  ashore,  and 
rowed  softly  away  into  the  obscure  and  lonely 
wilderness  of  the  sea. 

Truly,  as  Dionaid  said,  God  must  have  whis 
pered  in  the  closed  ears,  and  told  him  whither 
to  guide  the  boat,  and  when  to  rest  while  he 
let  it  drift,  and  when  to  take  up  the  oars  again. 
For,  betwixt  dawn  and  sunrise,  the  fugitive, 
oaring  slowly  out  of  a  pearly  haze,  came  abruptly 
upon  the  southwest  of  Innisron. 

With  a  cry  of  gladness,  he  leaned  forward, 
shading  with  his  right  hand  his  eager  eyes.  He 
had  recognised  familiar  features  of  shore  and 
headlands.  The  whim  took  him  to  capsize  the 
boat  and  swim  ashore.  In  sudden  excitement, 
he  sprang  to  his  feet.  The  little  craft  rocked 
wildly.  The  next  moment  Alastair  had  left  the 
upturned  keel  to  drift  in  the  grey  sea  like  a 
water-snake,  and  was  swimming  swiftly  across 
the  two  or  three  hundred  yards  which  lay 
between  the  island  and  the  place  where  he  had 
fallen. 

When  he  reached  the  shore,  he  wandered 
slowly  to  and  fro,  his  new-born  energy  having 
lapsed  into  a  vague  unrest.  Aimlessly  he  leant 
now  against  one  boulder,  now  against  another. 
At  last,  the  chill  of  his  dripping  clothes  gave 


I2O  Pharais. 

him  active  discomfort.  He  looked  doubtfully 
on  the  slopes,  then  at  the  sea,  then  again  at 
the  slopes.  With  the  strange  impulsiveness  of 
his  disease,  he  turned  abruptly;  with  swift, 
stumbling  steps,  crossed  the  shore ;  passed  the 
ridges  covered  with  sea-grass,  and  entered  the 
shaws  beyond.  Thence  he  walked  quickly  up 
the  corrie  behind  Craig-Geal.  When  he  gained 
the  upper  end,  the  sunrise  shone  full  upon  him. 
Flinging  first  one  wet  garment  from  him,  and 
then  another,  he  was  speedily  naked  —  beautiful 
in  his  fair  youth,  with  his  white  skin  and  tangle 
of  yellow  hair,  which,  as  the  sun-rays  blent  with 
it,  seemed  to  spill  pale  gold. 

He  laughed  with  pleasure;  then  raced  to 
and  fro  for  warmth.  When  tired,  he  stooped 
to  pluck  the  thyme  or  tufts  of  gale.  For  a  while, 
he  wandered  thus  circle-wise,  aimlessly  happy. 

The  day  came  with  heat,  and  hourly  grew 
hotter.  Alastair  was  glad  to  lie  down  in  a  shady 
place  by  a  burn,  and  drowse  through  the  long, 
warm  hours.  As  the  afternoon  waned  into 
gloaming,  he  rose,  and,  forgetful  of  or  unheed 
ing  his  discarded  clothes,  wandered  idly  north 
ward  by  one  of  the  many  sheep-paths.  It  was 
late  when,  having  woven  for  himself  a  crown  of 
moonflowers  into  which  he  inserted  afterwards 
a  few  yellow  sea-poppies,  he  made  his  way  down 
to  the  sea,  and  hungrily  ate  of  what  shell-fish 
he  could  gather  —  briny  cockles  from  the  sand, 
and  whelks  and  mussels  from  the  rocks. 

At  the  coming  of  the  moonlight  across  the 
water,  he  laughed  low  with  joy.  It  was  only 


Pharais.  121 

in  the  darkness  he  heard  that  Voice  in  the  sea 
which  called,  called,  called,  and  terrified  him 
so  even  while  it  allured  him.  The  waves,  dan 
cing  and  leaping  in  the  yellow  shine  and  breaking 
into  a  myriad  little  cups  and  fleeting  hollows, 
sang  a  song  that  filled  him  with  joy. 

Then  it  was  that,  with  erect  head,  flashing 
eyes,  and  proud  mien,  crowned  with  moon- 
flowers  and  sea-poppies,  and  beautiful  in  the 
comeliness  of  his  youth,  Alastair  appeared  before 
the  startled  eyes  of  Lora,  who,  for  the  second 
time,  had  come  down  to  that  shore  to  woo  and 
win  Death. 

When,  late  that  night,  Mary  Maclean  returned, 
she  found  Lora  in  Ealasaid's  arms,  sobbing  and 
moaning  hysterically. 

It  was  long  ere  she  was  able  to  learn  the 
exact  truth,  and  at  first  she  doubted  if  Lora 
were  not  suffering  from  a  hallucination.  But 
as  the  young  mother  grew  calm,  and  took  up 
her  frail  babe  and  kissed  it  with  tears,  Mary 
was  won  to  believe  in  at  least  the  possibility 
that  the  vision  was,  if  not  of  Alastair  in  the 
body,  at  any  rate  the  wraith  of  him,  allowed 
to  be  seen  of  Lora  out  of  God's  pity  of  her 
despair. 

The  night  was  too  far  gone  for  anything  to 
be  done  straightway ;  but  she  promised  to  go 
forth  with  Lora  at  sunrise  and  see  if  that  white, 
flower-crowned  phantom  walked  abroad  in  the 
day,  and  was  no  mere  fantasy  of  the  moon 
shine. 


122  Pharais. 

She  had  fallen  asleep  when,  at  dawn,  Lora 
aroused  her. 

Without  a  word,  she  rose  from  the  chair, 
wrapped  a  shawl  about  her,  and  then,  kissing 
Lora  gently,  looked  at  her  with  quiet,  question 
ing  eyes. 

"What  is  it,  Mary?" 

"You  still  believe  that  you  saw  Alastair  .  .  . 
Alastair  in  the  body?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  had  you  not  better  take  the  child 
with  you  ?  I  will  carry  the  little  one.  If  he 
should  see  it  —  perhaps  he  would.  ..." 

"  You  are  right,  dear  friend.  God  has  put 
that  thought  into  your  mind." 

A  few  minutes  later,  the  two  women  passed 
out  into  the  cold,  fresh  morning ;  Mary  going 
first  with  the  child,  and  keeping,  wherever 
practicable,  to  the  sheep-paths  or  to  the  barren 
ledges  that  ran  out  every  here  and  there  from 
the  heather  and  bracken,  and  this  because  of 
the  dews  which  lay  heavily,  giving  a  moon-white 
sheen  to  the  grass,  and  sheathing  every  frond 
and  leaf  and  twig  as  with  crystal,  glistening 
rainbow-hued. 

They  took  a  path  that  trailed  above  the 
hollow  of  the  moonflowers,  and  led  deviously 
shoreward  by  the  side  of  Craig-Geal. 

When  they  reached  the  summit  of  the  grassy 
brae,  where  the  path  diverged,  they  looked  long 
in  every  direction.  Nowhere  could  they  discern 
sign  of  any  human  being.  Not  a  soul  moved 
upon  the  upland  moors ;  not  a  soul  moved  upon 


Pharais.  123 

the  boulder-strewn,  rowan-studded  slopes ;  not 
a  soul  moved  by  the  margin  of  that  dead-calm 
sea,  so  still  that  even  the  whisper  of  its  lip  was 
inaudible,  though  the  faint  aerial  echo  of  the 
crooning  of  its  primeval  slumber-song  slipt 
hushfully  into  the  ear. 

They  were  half-way  down  towards  the  shore 
when  Mrs.  Maclean,  holding  up  a  warning 
hand,  stopped. 

"  What  is  it,  Mary  ?  "  Lora  whispered.  "  Do 
you  see  anything?  Do  you  see  him?  " 

"Look!"  and,  as  she  spoke,  Mary  pointed 
to  a  dip  in  the  little  glen. 

Under  a  rowan,  heavy  with  clusters  of  fruit, 
as  yet  of  a  ruddy  brown  touched  here  and 
there  with  crimson,  a  white  figure  stooped,  lean 
ing  over  one  of  the  pools  wherein  the  falling 
burn  slept  and  dreamed  awhile  ere  it  leaped 
again  from  ledge  to  ledge,  or  slipt  laughing 
and  whispering  through  time-worn  channels. 

He  was  like  some  beautiful  creature  of  an 
antique  tale.  Even  as  a  wild  deer,  he  stooped 
and  drank;  looked  questioningly  through  the 
rowans  and  birches,  and  then  across  the  bracken 
where  the  sun-rays  slid  intricately  in  a  golden 
tangle ;  then,  stooping  again,  again  drank. 

The  sunlight  was  warm  about  him.  His 
shoulders  and  back  gleamed  ivory-white,  dusked 
flickeringly  here  and  there  with  leaf-shadows. 
A  shadowy  green-gloom  lay  upon  his  curved 
breast  and  against  his  thighs,  from  the  sheen  of 
the  water  passing  upward  through  the  dense  fern 
that  overhung  the  stream. 


124  Pharais. 

"  It  is  the  yotmg  god,"  thought  Mary ;  "  the 
young  god  who,  Sheumais  the  Seer  says,  was 
born  of  human  hope,  weaned  with  human  tears, 
taught  by  dreams  and  memories,  and  therewith 
given  for  his  body,  Beauty  .  .  .  and  for  his  soul, 
Immortal  Joy." 

But  aloud  she  murmured  only,  "  It  is  he  — 
the  Beautiful  One  —  of  the  Domhan  Toirf" 

Lora  did  not  look  at  her ;  but  below  her  breath 
whispered,  "  //  is  Alas  fair" 

Swiftly  and  silently,  they  moved  forward. 

So  intent  was  Alastair,  after  he  had  quenched 
his  thirst,  upon  what  he  saw  or  imagined  in  the 
pool  beneath  him,  that  he  did  not  hear  their  steps 
till  they  were  but  a  few  yards  away. 

«  Alastair  1" 

He  lifted  his  head  and  listened. 

"Alastairl" 

The  sudden  fear  passed  from  his  eyes.  A 
smile  came  into  them,  and  his  lips  parted  : 

"  Lora  .  .  .  Lora  bhan  .  .  .  Lora,  my  beauti 
ful  gloom  .  .  .  my  fawn  .  .  .  my  little  one  ..." 

As  he  spoke,  with  low,  caressing,  yearning 
voice,  he  looked  into  the  heart  of  the  pool  again, 
and  stretched  forward  his  arms  longingly. 

A  sob  behind  him  fell  upon  his  ears.  Startled, 
he  sprang  back. 

For  more  than  a  minute,  he  looked  intently 
at  Lora  and  Mrs.  Maclean.  Then,  slowly,  some 
reminiscence  worked  in  his  brain.  Slowly,  too, 
the  dark  veil  began  to  lift  from  his  mind ;  slightly, 
and  for  a  brief  while  at  most. 


Pharais.  125 

«  Mary ! " 

Mrs.  Maclean  made  a  step  towards  him,  but 
stopped.  The  peace  that  was  about  her  at  all 
times  breathed  from  her,  and  lay  upon  him. 
The  benediction  of  her  eyes  upheld  him. 

Quietly  she  spoke,  with  her  right  hand  pointing 
to  the  sobbing  woman  at  her  side. 

"Alastair  .  .  .  this  is  Lora,  who  has  sought 
you  far,  and  now  has  found  you." 

"  Lora  ?  Lora  is  dead  !  She  is  a  beautiful  spirit, 
and  sleeps  in  that  pool  under  the  rowan.  She 
walked  with  me  last  night  in  the  moonshine. 
She  has  a  beautiful  child  that  is  our  child.  It  is 
now  a  song,  singing  in  the  sunshine.  I  heard  it 
at  dawn,  when  I  was  listening  to  the  stars  calling 
one  to  another.  It  is  a  song  of  joy  about  the 
doorway  of  Pharais.  I  saw  the  golden  doors 
open  a  brief  while  ago  —  the  doors  of  Pharais. 
Our  little  child  danced  in  the  glory  as  a  mote 
in  a  sunbeam.  But  Lora  is  dead." 

"  Hush  !  Lora  is  not  dead,  but  liveth.  Lora 
is  here.  See,  her  tears  run  for  you  —  her  bosom 
heaves  for  you  —  her  arms  reach  for  you  !  " 

Slowly  the  dreamer  advanced.  He  would  not 
come  quite  close  at  first,  but  there  was  a 
wonderful  new  light  in  his  eyes. 

"  Alastair  !  Alastair  !  It  is  I,  Lora  !  Come  to 
me  !  Come  to  me  !  " 

"  If,  indeed  ...  if,  indeed,  you  are  Lora  .  .  . 
Lora,  my  joy  .  .  .  where  is  our  child  whose  soul 
I  heard  singing  in  the  sunshine  over  against  Tigh- 
na- Pharais?  " 

Without  a  word,  and  swiftly,  Lora  took  her 


126  Pharais. 

poor  blind  blossom  from  Mary,  and  held  the 
child  towards  him. 

"  It  is  God's  gift  to  us,  Alastair,"  she  added 
at  last,  seeing  that  he  came  no  nearer,  and  looked 
at  the  child  wonderingly. 

He  advanced  slowly,  till  his  breath  fell  upon 
Lora's  hands,  and  made  her  heart  strain  with  its 
passion.  Stopping,  he  stretched  forth  his  right 
hand  and  gently  touched  the  sleeping  face.  A 
sun-ray  fell  upon  it.  Then  a  smile  grew  upon 
the  little  parted  lips,  as  the  spirit  of  a  flower 
might  grow  and  bloom  bodiless  in  dreamland. 

Alastair  smiled.  With  soft,  caressing  hand, 
he  smoothed  the  child's  face  and  little,  uplifted 
arm.  Then  he  took  it  gently  from  its  mother, 
kissed  it,  handed  it  to  Mary. 

And  having  done  this,  he  opened  his  arms  and 
said  one  word  :  "  Lora  !  " 

None  saw  their  return.  Mrs.  Maclean  went 
before  them  with  the  child,  and  at  once  sent 
Ealasaid  out  to  keep  watch  and  ward  against  the 
coming  of  any  one.  Thereafter  she  swiftly  made 
all  ready  for  those  whom  God  had  lifted  out  of 
the  grave. 

But  so  weary  was  Alastair  —  so  far  spent  by 
hunger,  and  fatigue,  and  exposure  —  that  he 
could  not  put  on  the  clothes  laid  ready  for  him. 
So  Lora  led  him  gently  to  bed  ;  and  there,  after 
he  had  swallowed  a  little  broth  and  warm  milk, 
he  fell  into  a  profound  sleep  which  lasted  till 
dark,  and  then,  after  a  brief  interval  wherein  he 
ate  ravenously,  till  late  on  the  morrow. 


Pharais.  127 

From  that  time  forth,  Alastair's  madness  took 
a  new  form.  All  of  dark  gloom,  of  dread  or 
vague  fear,  went  from  him.  His  reason  seemed 
to  be  a  living  energy  again,  though  still  bewil- 
deringly  distraught  at  times,  and  ever  veiled. 

Nevertheless,  that  day  of  his  awakening  after 
his  long,  life-saving  slumber  was  the  last  wherein 
the  things  of  his  past  and  the  affairs  of  the  pres 
ent  were  realities  to  him.  Concerning  these,  he 
could  listen  to  little  and  speak  less ;  and,  again 
and  again,  his  struggling  thought  became  con 
fused  and  his  words  incoherent. 

Yet  Lora  learned  enough  to  know  what  his 
one  passionate  wish  was.  Full  well  he  knew 
that  the  end  was  not  far  from  him ;  but  before 
he  entered  into  the  silence  he  might  live  many 
months ;  and  he  longed  to  leave  Innisr6n. 
Beyond  words,  he  longed  to  die  in  that  little 
lonely  isle  of  Ithona  which  was  his  sole  heritage 
from  his  mother,  and  where  he  had  been  born ; 
for  his  father  had  brought  his  fair  Eilidh  there 
from  his  old  gloomy  castle  at  Dunvrechan  for 
the  travail  that  was  her  doom. 

Upon  Ithona  no  one  dwelt  other  than  an  old 
islander  whose  fathers  had  been  there  before  him 
for  generations. 

Sheumais  Macleod  was  at  once  shepherd  and 
fisherman,  and  caretaker  of  the  long,  low  farm 
house  :  alone  now,  since  the  death  of  his  wife 
at  midsummer  of  that  year.  There  was  room 
and  to  spare  for  Alastair  and  Lora  and  the  little 
one ;  for  Mary  also  —  for  Mrs.  Maclean  never 
dreamed  of  parting  from  these  her  children. 


128  Pharais. 

And  thus  it  was  arranged,  ere  dusk  came  and 
filled  with  violet  shadows  all  the  hollows  that  lay 
betwixt  the  cottage  and  the  sea. 

Three  days  thence,  late  on  a  hot  afternoon 
scarce  cooled  by  the  breeze  that  moved  sound 
lessly  though  steadily  over  the  upland  crags  of 
Innisron,  a  company  of  islanders  was  met  at  the 
little  western  haven  betwixt  Ardfeulan  and  Craig- 
Ruaidh.  Every  one  on  the  isle  was  there,  indeed, 
except  the  one  or  two  who  were  weakly  or  in 
extreme  old  age. 

On  the  water,  moored  to  a  ledge,  a  herring- 
trawler,  the  Ellu,  lay  with  her  brown  sail  flap 
ping  idly.  In  the  stern  sat  Lora,  with  her 
child  at  her  breast,  and  beside  her  Mrs.  Mac 
lean.  In  the  waist,  with  a  leg  on  either  side  of 
the  seat,  Angus  Macrae,  who  owned  the  boat, 
leaned  against  the  mast. 

The  islanders  made  a  semi-circular  group. 
In  the  middle  were  six  or  seven  old  men :  on 
either  side  were  the  younger  men,  women  old 
and  young,  and  the  children.  Behind  were 
the  collie  dogs,  squatted  on  their  haunches  or 
moving  restlessly  to  and  fro. 

Some  mischance  had  made  it  impossible  for 
Mr.  Macdonald,  the  old  minister  of  these  outer 
isles,  to  be  present.  Father  Manus,  a  young 
priest  of  lona,  took  his  place,  and  had  already 
blessed  the  sea,  and  the  Ellu  that  was  to  voyage 
across  it,  and  those  who  were  going  away  for 
ever  from  Innisr6n,  and  the  weary  hearts  they 
carried  with  them,  and  the  sad  hearts  of  those 
who  were  gathered  to  see  them  go. 


Pharais.  1 29 

Alastair,  tall,  frail,  with  wild  eyes  strangely 
at  variance  with  the  quiet  pallor  of  his  face  — 
and  to  many  there  scarce  recognisable,  so 
greatly  had  he  altered  —  was  bidding  farewell 
to  the  elders  one  by  one. 

Not  a  word  else  was  spoken  by  any  than  the 
familiar  good-bye  —  Beannachd  leibh.  The 
hearts  of  all  were  too  full. 

At  the  last,  Alastair  came  to  where  Ealasaid 
MacAodh  stood,  crying  silently.  He  took  her 
in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  on  the  brow  and 
then  upon  both  eyes. 

She  watched  him  as  he  moved  slowly  down 
to  the  Elite.  He  stepped  on  board,  followed 
by  Ranald  Macrae,  and  sat  down  beside  Lora, 
whose  hand  he  took  in  his,  and  with  the  other 
stroked  it  gently. 

As  old  Angus  Macrae  shook  out  the  sail, 
Ealasaid  suddenly  fell  on  her  knees,  and,  sway 
ing  to  and  fro,  began  a  wailing  lament :  — 

Tha  mo  latha  gotrid, 

Tha  mo  feasgar  fada, 

O,  oi,  oi,  tha  cto  air  a'  bheinn, 

O,  oi,  oi,  tha  druchd  air  an  fheur  I 

My  day  is  short, 

Long  is  my  night  — 

O,  alas,  alas,  the  mist  upon  the  hill, 

O,  alas,  alas,  the  dew  upon  the  grass  ! 

Slowly  the  Ellu  moved  out  from  the  haven. 

Lora    and    Mary    sat    with    bowed    heads. 
Alastair  had    turned   and  was  staring  seaward, 
where  a  glory  of  gold  and  scarlet  was  gathered 
against  the  going  down  of  the  sun. 
9 


ijo 


Pharais. 

O,  oi,  ot,  fha  cto  air  a  bheinn, 

O,  oiy  oi>  tha  drbchd  air  an  fheur  ! 


sang  the  islanders  in  a  long,  wailing  chant. 

Suddenly  the  sail  filled,  became  taut.  The 
boat  moved  swiftly  before  the  wind. 

A  deep  silence  fell  upon  all.  Then  Griogair 
Fionnladh,  the  oldest  of  the  islesmen,  raised  the 
pipes  from  his  shoulder  and  began  to  play. 

But  the  wild,  mournful,  plaintive  air  was  not 
the  expected  Lament  of  Farewell.  It  was  the 
ancient  Coronach  for  the  Dead. 

One  by  one,  every  man  doffed  his  bonnet ; 
the  white-haired  elders  bowing  their  heads, 
and,  with  downcast  eyes,  muttering  inaudibly. 
Sobs  were  heard  and  tears  fell ;  but  no  word 
was  spoken. 

When  the  sun  set,  the  Ellu  was  far  on  her 
way  —  a  black  speck  in  the  golden  light.  With 
the  coming  of  the  gloaming,  the  islanders  slowly 
dispersed.  Soon  there  was  none  left,  save 
Fionnladh  and  Ealasaid. 

For  a  long  while  thereafter  upon  the  twilight- 
water  rose  and  fell,  mingling  with  the  solemn, 
rhythmic  chant  of  the  waves,  the  plaintive, 
mournful  wail  of  the  Coronach  for  those  who 
have  passed  into  the  silence. 

When  that,  too,  had  ceased,  there  was  no 
sound  that  the  sea  heard  not  nightly,  save  the 
sobbing  of  the  woman  Ealasaid. 


Pharais.  131 


VII. 

WEEK  after  week,  month  after  month,  until 
nigh  the  end  of  the  fourth,  passed  by  on 
Ithona  :  and  they  who  dwelt  there  took  no  heed 
of  the  passage  of  the  days. 

There  are  no  hours  for  those  who  are  beyond 
the  rumour  of  that  "  time  or  chance  "  of  which 
the  Preacher  speaks.  Day  grows  out  of  night, 
and  in  night  fulfilleth  itself  again  :  the  stars  suc 
ceed  the  diurnal  march  of  the  sun,  and  hardly 
are  they  lost  in  his  glory  ere  they  come  again. 
Scarce  distinguishable  are  the  twilight  of  the 
dawn  and  the  twilight  of  the  eve  :  and  even 
as  the  coming  and  going  of  these  similar 
shadows  are  the  appearance  and  evanishing  of 
the  shadows  whom  we  know  for  our  fellow- 
men,  so  little  differing  one  from  the  other,  indi 
vidual  from  individual,  people  from  people,  race 
from  race. 

And  even  as  a  shadow,  to  those  who  abode 
on  Ithona,  was  that  world  they  had  seen  so  little 
of,  but  of  which  they  had  yet  known  enough. 

In  that  remote  island,  solitary  even  among 
the  outer  isles  of  which  it  was  one  of  the  most 
far-set  in  ocean,  there  was  little  to  break  the 
monotony  of  the  hours.  No  steamer  drew 
near,  save  at  long  intervals.  The  coast-guard 


132  Pharais. 

cutter  arrived  intermittently,  but  sometimes 
not  for  months,  coming  like  an  alien  seabird, 
and  as  a  strange  bird  of  the  seas  going  upon 
its  unknown  way  again.  Few  even  of  the  herring- 
trawlers  sailed  nigh,  except  in  the  late  summer, 
when  the  mackerel  came  eastward  in  vast  shoals. 
Morning  and  noon,  afternoon  and  evening, 
night  and  the  passing  of  night,  dawn  and  sun 
rise  :  these  were  the  veils  that  seemed  to  cur 
tain  off  this  spot  of  earth.  Storm  followed  calm ; 
calm  succeeded  storm ;  the  winds  came  and 
went ;  the  tides  rose  and  fell.  In  summer,  the 
rains  from  the  south ;  in  autumn,  the  rains  from 
the  west;  in  winter,  the  rains  from  the  north. 
Change  followed  change,  but  orderly  as  in  pro 
cessional  array.  The  poppies  reddened  the 
scanty  fields  of  rye ;  the  swallows  and  martins 
haunted  the  island- ways ;  the  wild  rose  bloomed, 
as  with  white  and  pink  sea-shells  made  soft  and 
fragrant.  Then  a  little  while,  and  the  ling  grew 
purple  at  the  passing  of  the  roses ;  the  hawks 
swung  in  the  wind  when  the  swallows  had 
vanished;  the  campions  waved  where  the 
poppies  had  fallen  ;  the  grey  thistle  usurped  the 
reaped  grain.  In  summer,  the  Weaver  of  Sun 
shine  rested  there  ;  there,  during  the  equinox, 
the  Weaver  of  the  Winds  abode;  in  winter, 
the  Weaver  of  the  Snow  made  a  white  shroud 
for  the  isle  and  wove  a  shimmering  veil  for  the 
dusking  of  the  sea.  And  as  one  spring  was  like 
another  spring,  and  one  autumn  like  another 
autumn,  so  was  one  year  like  another  year,  in 
the  QDming  and  in  the  going. 


Pharais.  133 

Save  for  the  encroaching  shadow  of  death, 
there  was  nothing  to  mark  the  time  for  the 
dwellers  on  Ithona.  Mary  was  aware  that  not 
Alastair  only,  but  Lora,  was  becoming  frailer 
week  by  week.  Lora,  as  well  as  Mary,  knew 
that  the  child's  face  grew  more  wan  and  thin 
almost  day  by  day.  Old  Sheumais  Macleod  was 
weary  at  heart  with  the  pity  of  all  that  he  saw. 
Only  Alastair  was  happy,  for  he  dreamed ;  and 
his  dream  was  of  the  loveliness  of  earth  and  sea 
and  sky,  of  the  pathway  that  came  down  from 
heaven  at  sunrise  and  led  back  at  nightfall 
through  the  avenue  of  the  stars  to  the  very  gates 
of  Pharais.  More  happy,  too,  grew  the  others 
as  the  autumn  waned,  and  the  golden  peace  of 
St.  Martin's  aftermath  lay  upon  sea  and  land ; 
for  their  eyes  saw  more  and  more  through  the 
dreaming  eyes  of  Alastair,  more  and  more  clearly 
they  heard  strains  of  the  music  that  haunted  his 
rapt  ears. 

Daily  he  went  about  clad  with  dream :  a 
strange  sweetness  in  his  voice,  a  mystery  upon 
his  face.  His  eyes  no  longer  brooded  darkly ; 
there  was  in  them  a  bright  light  as  of  a  cloudless 
morning. 

If,  months  ago,  God  had  rilled  with  dusk  the 
house  of  the  brain,  it  was  now  not  the  dusk  of 
coming  night,  but  of  the  advancing  day.  Fan 
tasies  beset  him  often,  as  of  yore,  but  never  with 
terror  or  dismay.  The  moorland  tarn  held  no 
watching  kelpie  :  instead,  he  heard  the  laughter 
of  the  fairies  as  they  swung  in  the  bells  of  the 
foxglove;  the  singing  of  an  angel  where  the 


1 34  Pharais. 

wind  wandered  among  the  high  corries ;  whis 
pers  and  sighs  of  fair  spirits  in  the  murmur  of 
leaves,  or  falling  water,  or  chime  of  the  waves. 

Sometimes  Lora  walked  or  lay  beside  him  for 
hours,  listening  to  his  strange  speech  about  the 
things  that  he  saw  —  things  too  lovely  for  mortal 
vision,  but  ultimately  as  real  to  her  as  to  him. 
Hope  came  back  to  her ;  and  then  Peace ;  and, 
at  the  last,  Joy. 

When  not  with  Lora,  he  loved  well  to  be  with 
Mary  or  with  Sheumais. 

In  the  eyes  of  the  former  he  would  some 
times  look  for  a  long  time,  seeing  there  the 
secret  home  of  peace,  and  perhaps,  deeper,  the 
unveiled  beauty  of  the  serene  and  lovely  soul. 

Sheumais  he  had  loved  from  childhood.  The 
old  islesman  had  never  once  been  on  the  main 
land,  though  in  his  youth  he  had  sailed  along 
its  endless  coasts.  Tall  and  strong  he  was,  de 
spite  his  great  age ;  and  his  eyes  were  the  eyes 
of  a  young  man  who  hears  his  first-born  laugh 
ing  and  crooning  against  its  mother's  breast. 
Ignorant  as  he  was  of  the  foreign  tongue  of  the 
mainland,  ignorant  of  books,  and  unable  to  read 
even  a  verse  in  the  Gaelic  Scriptures  of  which 
he  knew  so  many  chapters  by  heart,  he  was  yet 
strong  in  knowledge  and  wise  in  the  way  of  it 
beyond  most  men.  For  he  knew  all  that  is  to 
be  known  concerning  the  island  and  the  sur 
rounding  sea,  and  what  moved  thereon  and  lived 
therein ;  and,  in  his  humbleness  and  simplicity, 
he  saw  so  deep  into  the  human  heart  and  into 
the  mystery  of  the  soul,  that  he  was  not 


Pharals.  135 

ashamed  to  know  he  was  man,  nor  to  pray  to 
God  to  guide  him  through  the  shadows. 

It  was  from  Sheumais  that  Alastair,  in  boyhood 
and  youth,  had  learned  much,  not  only  of  his 
store  of  legends  and  ancient  runes  and  old  Celtic 
poetry,  but  also  of  that  living  poetry  which  makes 
the  heart  of  the  Gael  more  tender  than  that  of 
other  men,  and  his  brain  more  wrought  with 
vision.  From  him  he  had  first  heard  how  that 
for  one  to  have  died  is  to  have  "  gone  into  the 
silence  ;"  that  for  an  old  man  or  woman  to  pass 
away  in  extreme  age  is  to  "have  the  white 
sleep ;  "  that  for  a  fisherman  to  drown  is  for  him 
to  have  "  the  peace  of  the  quiet  wave." 

Sheumais  had  filled  his  brain  with  lovely  words 
—  lovely  in  themselves  and  their  meaning ;  but 
he  had  made  his  clansman  a  poet  by  one  thing 
that  he  did  and  said. 

For  once,  after  Alastair  had  returned  to  the 
West,  from  the  University  in  St.  Andrew's,  he 
went  to  Ithona  to  stay  for  some  weeks.  At  sun 
rise  on  the  morrow  of  his  arrival,  on  his  coming 
out  upon  the  grass  which  sloped  to  the  shore  a 
few  yards  away,  he  saw  Sheumais  standing,  with 
his  wide,  blue  bonnet  in  his  hand,  and  the  sun 
shining  full  upon  his  mass  of  white  hair  —  not 
praying,  as  at  first  Alastair  thought,  but  with  a 
rapt  look  on  his  face,  and  with  glad,  still-youth 
ful  eyes  gazing  lovingly  upon  the  sea. 

"What  is  it,  Sheumais?"  he  had  asked;  and 
the  old  isleman,  turning  to  him  with  a  grave 
smile,  had  answered  :  — 

"  Morning  after  morning,  fair  weather  or  foul, 


ij  6  Pharais. 

after  I  have  risen  from  my  prayers  and  ere  I 
have  broken  my  fast,  I  come  here  and  remove 
my  hat  and  bow  my  head,  with  joy  and  thanks 
giving,  before  the  Beauty  of  the  World." 

From  that  day,  the  world  became  a  new  world 
for  Alastair. 

In  the  quietude  of  dusk  —  and  day  by  day  the 
dusk  came  sooner  and  the  dawn  later  —  Mary 
would  sometimes  sing,  or  Sheumais  repeat  some 
favourite  Ossianic  duan,  or  chant  a  fugitive  song 
of  the  isles.  But,  towards  the  close  of  Novem 
ber,  a  silence  fell  more  and  more  upon  all. 
Each  had  grown  a  little  weary  with  the  burden 
of  life :  all  knew  Who  it  was  that  was  coming 
stealthily  across  the  waters,  and  for  whom  first. 

It  was  on  the  dawn  of  December  that  the 
child  died.  It  seemed  to  lapse  from  life  as  an 
ebbing  wavelet  from  a  pool. 

The  evening  before,  Alastair  had  carried  the 
little  one  to  the  shore.  He  had  never  under 
stood  that  the  child's  eyes  were  sealed,  and  often 
thought  that  it  slept  when  it  was  really  awake. 
When  he  came  to  a  favourite  pool  of  his,  that 
at  low  tide  was  wont  to  flush  with  any  red  light 
spilled  across  the  wave,  he  held  his  tiny  burden 
up,  laughing  and  crooning  to  it. 

"  Look,  my  pretty  one,"  he  would  murmur, 
"that  red  light  is  the  blood  of  your  elder 
brother.  Fair  is  He,  the  white  Christ.  He  has 
put  that  there  to  show  that  He  loves  you."  Or, 
again,  he  would  kneel,  and  with  one  hand  warily 
move  aside  the  bladder-wrack  and  other  sea- 


Pharais.  137 

weeds ;  and  then,  pointing  into  the  translucent 
water,  would  tell  the  blind  sleeper  to  look  into 
the  heart  of  the  pool  and  he  would  see,  far 
down  beyond  a  vast  vista  of  white  columns,  flight 
after  flight  of  shining  golden  stairs,  which  led  at 
last  to  a  great  gate  flashing  like  the  sea  in  the 
noon-dazzle.  And  at  the  gate  was  a  little  child 
like  unto  himself,  singing  a  sweet  song;  and 
just  within  the  gate  was  a  beautiful  spirit,  whose 
face  was  that  of  Lora,  and  who  could  not  sing 
as  the  little  child  did,  because,  though  she  was 
clad  with  joy  as  with  a  robe,  in  her  eyes  there 
was  still  a  last  lingering  mist  of  human  tears. 

"And  in  Pharais,  my  bonnie,"  he  would  add 
whisperingly  in  the  child's  unheeding  ear,  "  in 
Pharais  there  are  no  tears  shed,  though  in  the 
remotest  part  of  it  there  is  a  grey  pool,  the  weep 
ing  of  all  the  world,  fed  everlastingly  by  the 
myriad  eyes  that  every  moment  are  somewhere 
wet  with  sorrow,  or  agony,  or  vain  regret,  or 
vain  desire.  And  those  who  go  there  stoop, 
and  touch  their  eyelids  with  that  grey  water; 
and  it  is  as  balm  to  them,  and  they  go  healed 
of  their  too  great  joy :  and  their  songs  there 
after  are  the  sweetest  that  are  sung  in  the  ways 
of  Pharais." 

Often  Lora  or  Mary  would  be  with  him  when 
he  was  thus  speaking ;  for  each  was  fearful  lest 
some  day  he  should  discover  that  his  little  uan 
was  blind,  and  could  never  even  open  the 
sealed  lids. 

But  on  that  last  twilight  of  November,  Alastair 
seemed  to  have  been  impressed  by  the  passive 


138  Pharais. 

stillness  of  the  child,  and  to  be  troubled  when 
he  looked  at  it.  He  had  kissed  the  eyes  again 
and  again,  but  they  had  not  opened;  he  had 
whispered  loving  words  in  the  tiny  ears,  but 
they  had  not  hearkened. 

All  that  night  he  was  restless,  and  rose  often 
to  look  at  the  two  sleepers  in  the  bed  opposite 
his  own.  Just  before  dawn,  he  looked  for  the 
last  time.  He  was  satisfied  now.  The  little 
one  smiled  .  .  .  but  it  was  because  that  in  the 
soundless,  breathless  passage  from  one  darkness 
to  another,  it  had  heard  a  sweet  voice  at  last, 
and  at  last  had,  with  suddenly  illumined  eyes, 
beheld  a  new  glory. 

So  white  and  still  was  it  that,  when  the  cold 
of  the  tiny  hands  against  her  bosom  awoke  Lora, 
she  lay  looking  upon  it  for  a  while,  rapt  in  a 
new  and  strange  awe.  Then,  having  aroused 
Mary,  she  went  to  Sheumais,  and  brought  him 
into  the  room.  Mary  had  already  waked  Alas- 
tair,  and  he  sat  holding  the  small  white  body 
on  his  knees,  stroking  it  gently. 

When  Lora  told  him  that  their  baby  was 
dead,  and  asked  him  if  he  knew  what  she  said, 
he  did  not  reply;  but  a  tear  rolled  down  his 
cheek,  and  he  put  his  hand  to  his  heart  as 
though  to  still  the  ache  of  his  inarticulate 
pain. 

But  after  Mary  had  read  from  the  Book  of 
Psalms,  and  prayed  in  a  low  voice,  all  rose  and 
passed  out  into  the  sunshine ;  and  Alastair,  al 
ready  oblivious  of  his  loss,  went  down  by  the 
shore,  and  smiled  with  pleasure  at  the  leap  and 


Pharais.  139 

fall,  and  chime  and  whisper,  and  sweet,  low 
laughter  of  the  sunny  waters. 

About  a  hundred  yards  inland  from  the 
cottage,  a  gigantic  pointed  stone  rises  from  out 
of  the  heather.  It  is  known  among  the  isles  as 
Fingal's  Bolt,  though  neither  Fionn  nor  his  son, 
Ossian,  ever  threw  that  huge,  flat-sided,  fang- 
like  rock.  A  few  rude  lines  and  even  letters  are 
still  discernible  on  the  side  next  the  sun;  but 
there  is  probably  none  who  could  decipher  that 
old-world  rune,  carved  in  bygone  ages  by  the 
hand  of  a  Druid. 

Of  all  places  in  the  island,  except  the  rocky 
headlands  whose  flanks  were  laved  by  the  sea, 
this  Stone  of  the  Past,  as  Sheumais  called  it, 
was  that  most  frequented  by  Alastair.  At  its 
base  he  had  listened,  as  a  boy,  to  the  tales  of 
the  old  islander;  beneath  it,  his  fantasy  now 
persuaded  him,  was  one  of  the  hidden  ways 
that  led  to  that  House  of  Paradise  of  which  he 
so  often  dreamed. 

There  the  four  silent  mourners  met  that  after 
noon  to  fulfil  the  wish  of  one  among  them, 
who  loved  to  think  that  his  little  uan  would 
come  back  some  moonshine  night  or  in  a  still 
dawn,  and,  taking  their  hands,  lead  his  father 
and  mother  by  that  secret  pathway  through 
Domham  Tbir  to  Tir-na-h'Oigh,  whence,  in 
good  time,  they  would  arise  and  go  up  into 
Pharais. 

Lora  had  already  been  on  the  spot  with 
Sheumais.  While  the  latter  had  dug  the  place 
of  sleep,  she,  with  white  chalk  picked  from  the 


140  Pharais. 

shore,  had  printed  in  large,  heavy  letters  these 
words  upon  the  seaward  side  of  the  stone  : 

"  Take  unto  Thy  compassion  this  little  one, 
and  us  who  follow." 

There  were  no  words  spoken  as  Mary,  kneel 
ing,  took  the  child  from  Lora's  arms,  and  laid 
it,  wrapped  in  a  white  sheet  filled  with  fragrant 
gale,  in  the  wood- shored  grave  that  had  been 
reverently  prepared. 

The  afternoon  had  grown  chill.  Seaward,  a 
grey  mass  had  risen  as  if  out  of  the  waste  of 
waters. 

All  were  still  kneeling  —  while  Sheumais  laid 
turf  and  heather  above  the  small  wooden  lid 
covering  the  narrow  house  that  would  give  the 
body  sanctuary  for  a  time  —  when  the  snow  be 
gan  to  come  down. 

There  was  no  wind,  so  the  flakes  fell  light 
as  feathers,  grey  in  the  gathering  dusk  as  the 
down  that  falls  from  the  wind-swept  breasts  of 
wild  swans  in  their  flight  to  or  from  the  Polar 
seas. 

Denser  and  denser  it  came;  soundless  at 
first,  but  after  a  while  with  a  faint  rustling  and 
whirling,  as  though  the  flakes  were  wings  of  in 
visible  birds  of  silence. 

The  grey-gloom  thickened.  Already  the  sea 
was  obscured.  Its  voice  was  audible  the  more 
loudly  ...  a  calling  voice ;  but  dull,  listless, 
melancholy  with  ancient,  unforgotten  pain  and 
all  its  burthen  of  immemorial  lore. 

The  four  mourners  rose.  The  two  women, 
with  bowed  heads,  murmured  words  of  prayer 


Pharais.  141 

and  farewell.  Sheumais,  crossing  himself,  mut 
tered  :  —  "  Deireadh  gach  comuinn,  sgaoi- 
leadh;  deireadh  gach  cogaidh,  sith  "  —  "the 
end  of  all  meetings,  parting  ;  the  end  of  all  striv 
ing,  peace."  Alastair  looked  eagerly  through 
the  snow-dusk  lest  the  child  should  come  again 
at  once  and  go  by  them  unseen. 

By  the  time  they  reached  home,  there  was  a 
thick  twilight  all  about  them.  A  little  later, 
looking  out  into  the  night,  they  saw  the  flakes 
drift  over  and  past  them  like  a  myriad  of  winged 
things  hurrying  before  a  wind  that  pursued,  de 
vouring.  The  island  lay  in  a  white  shroud. 
At  the  extreme  margin,  a  black,  pulsating  line 
seemed  to  move  sinuously  from  left  to  right. 

Suddenly  a  deeper  sound  boomed  from  the 
sea,  though  no  wind  ruffled  the  drifts  which  al 
ready  lay  thick  in  the  hollows.  Till  midnight, 
and  for  an  hour  beyond,  this  voice  of  the  sea 
was  as  the  baying  of  a  monstrous  hound. 

None  in  the  homestead  slept.  The  silence, 
broken  only  by  that  strange,  menacing  baying 
of  the  waves  as  they  roamed  through  the  soli 
tudes  environing  the  isle,  was  so  intense  that 
sometimes  the  ears  echoed  as  with  the  noise  of 
a  rush  of  wings,  or  as  with  the  sonorous  suspen 
sions  between  the  striking  of  bell  and  bell  in 
monotonously  swung  chimes. 

Then  again,  suddenly,  and  still  without  the 
coming  of  wind,  the  sea  ceased  its  hoarse,  angry 
baying,  and,  after  lapse  within  lapse  till  its  chime 
was  almost  inaudible,  gave  forth  in  a  solemn 
dirge  the  majestic  music  of  its  inmost  heart. 


142  Pharais. 

At  last,  after  long  vigils,  all  slept,  though  none 
so  deeply,  so  unwakeningly  as  Lora. 

Three  hours  before  dawn  the  snow  ceased 
to  fall.  An  icy  sparkle  glittered  league  after 
league  oceanward,  as  the  star-rays  pierced  the 
heaving  flanks  and  bowed  heads  of  the  sea 
horses  which  had  abruptly  sprung  up  before  the 
advancing  ground- swell. 

The  cold  was  the  cold  of  the  Black  Frost  — 
bitter,  sharp  as  a  sword,  nigh  unendurable. 

Shortly  after  dawn,  Alastair  awoke,  shivering. 
He  rose,  threw  some  more  peats  on  the  fire ; 
and  then,  having  dressed  and  wrapt  his  plaid 
about  him,  and  softly  opened  and  closed  the 
door,  stepped  out  into  the  snow. 

His  breath  caught  with  the  cold,  and  a 
greater  weakness  even  than  that  customary  of 
late  made  him  reel,  then  lean  against  the  wall 
for  a  few  minutes. 

Soon  his  faintness  passed.  The  exceeding 
beauty  of  sunrise  over  that  vast  stretch  of 
waters,  over  the  isle  in  its  stainless  white 
shroud,  filled  him  with  an  exalted  joy.  There 
after,  for  a  time,  he  walked  to  and  fro ;  some 
times  staring  absently  seaward,  again  glancing 
curiously  at  his  shadow  —  scarce  more  insub 
stantial  than  he  himself  had  grown  within  the 
last  month,  and  particularly  within  the  last  few 
days  —  as  it  lay  upon  or  moved  bluely  athwart 
the  snow. 

After  a  brief  space,  a  rapt  look  came  into  his 
face.  He  turned,  and  gazed  expectantly  at  the 
door. 


Pharais.  143 

No  one  coming  forth,  he  entered,  and,  with 
a  loving  smile,  crossed  to  Lora's  bed. 

"Sweetheart  ...  my  white  flower  .  .  . 
come.  It  is  so  beautiful.  Pharais  has  opened 
to  us  at  last.  I  can  see  the  steps  gleaming  gold 
within  the  yellow  shine  of  the  sun.  Beyond,  I 
saw  a  mist  of  waving  wings.  Come,  Lora,  .  .  . 
Come  !  " 

Cold  and  white  was  she  as  the  snow. 
Alastair  bent,  kissed  her  lips,  but  was  so 
wrought  by  his  vision  that  he  did  not  notice 
the  chill  of  them,  nor  see  the  blue  shadow  in 
the  pallor  of  the  face. 

"Ah,  miiirnean,  mo  muirnean,  see,  I  will 
carry  you,"  he  murmured  suddenly. 

He  stooped,  lifted  the  beautiful  dead  body 
he  had  loved  so  well,  and,  staggering  beneath 
the  weight,  half  carried,  half  dragged  it  to  the 
snow-slope  beyond  the  door.  Gently  he  placed 
Lora  down.  Then,  going  for  and  returning 
with  a  deer-skin,  laid  her  upon  it,  and  sat  down 
beside  her. 

For  a  brief  while,  he  waited  patiently  for  her 
awakening.  Then  his  eyes  wandered  again, 
now  fixt  upon  the  majesty  of  the  sea,  reaching 
intolerably  grand  from  endless  horizons  to  ho 
rizons  without  end ;  now  upon  the  immense 
dome  of  the  sky,  where,  amid  the  deepest  blue, 
high  in  the  north-west  the  moon  turned  a  disc  of 
pale  gold  out  of  an  almost  imperceptible  flush, 
and  confronted  the  flashing,  blazing  sunfire  that, 
in  the  south-east,  moved  swiftly  upward. 

Suddenly  he  leaned  forward  ;  his  lips  parted  ; 


144  Pharais. 

his  eyes  agleam  with  the  inner  flame  that  con 
sumed  him. 

"Lora  .  .  .  Lora,  my  fawn,"  he  whispered. 
"  Look  !  The  gates  are  opening  !  Dear,  all  is 
well  at  the  last.  God  has  given  me  back  to  you. 
My  trouble  is  healed.  Speak  to  me,  dear ;  too 
great  is  my  happiness  !  " 

No  sound :  no  movement  of  the  hands :  no 
stir  of  the  closed  eyelids. 

"Lora!" 

It  was  strange.     But  he  would  be  patient. 

Idly  he  watched  a  small,  grey  snow-cloud 
passing  low  above  the  island. 

A  warm  breath  reached  the  heart  of  it,  and 
set  the  myriad  wings  astir.  Down,  straight 
down  above  the  isle  and  for  a  few  fathoms  be 
yond  it,  they  fluttered  waveringly. 

The  fall  was  like  a  veil  suspended  over 
Ithona :  a  veil  so  thin,  so  transparent,  that  the 
sky  was  visible  through  it  as  an  azure  dusk; 
and  beneath  it,  the  sea  as  a  blue-flowing  lawn 
where-over  its  skirts  trailed ;  while  behind  it, 
the  rising  sunfire  was  a  shimmer  of  amber- 
yellow  that  made  every  falling  flake  glisten  like 
burnished  gold.  The  wind  was  utterly  still; 
the  sky  cloudless,  but  for  that  thin,  evanishing 
veil  of  dropping  gold. 

The  sea  lay  breathing  in  a  deep  calm  all 
around  the  isle.  But,  from  its  heart  that  never 
slumbers,  rose  as  of  yore,  and  for  ever,  a  rumour 
as  of  muffled  prophesyings,  a  Voice  of  Awe,  a 
Voice  of  Dread. 


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JL\J    I 


MAY  2  a  1977  X 


LD  21-50m-l .'33 


IUL  19192 

AU6    ©  1921 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


